marlowemuses | Heir of the Palais Garnier

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Heir of the Palais Garnier

One of the wealthy patrons of the opera was in the mirror room.

Laurent stood just outside, watching him through a pane of glass. His lair was dark, and the mirror room was bright, blindingly bright, and getting brighter by the minute. It made it very easy to watch without being seen, as did all the clever inventions of the phantom.

It was the handsome, nosy patron of the opera. This did not surprise Laurent. He was, after all, remarkably nosy, and remarkably persistent. If any of the opera patrons was going to end up in one of the phantom's traps, it could reasonably have been predicted that it would be this one.

He knew, not from experience, but from explanation, that the interior of the mirror room would be getting uncomfortably warm now. Enough to make a man squirm, or shed clothing.

Laurent had been watching for several minutes, ever since one of the alarms had rung to inform him that one of the pressure plates had been activated in one of the traps. There were many traps, and each one had a wire connected to a bell that would ring if it were activated. The pressure plate activated the trap and began a constant ringing of the respective bell. Laurent reached up and disconnected the wire.

This wealthy patron of the opera was a ghost hunter. Laurent had encountered them before. Most of them he simply ignored as not worth his time. This one intrigued Laurent, though he knew it was only because the patron was young, and handsome, with a healthy, well-formed body that looked more suited to a stage hand than a young heir. Most of the patrons Laurent had seen were fat, pale, cosseted things. This one was golden.

It would be getting hot now, inside the mirror room. Dizzyingly hot. Dry heat, despite the watery subterranean lair. The phantom had been most pleased about that, when he'd shown Laurent how it worked. Dry heat, wicking the moisture from the air, meant that the glass would never fog. He could watch every moment.

Laurent laid his palm against the outside wall of the room. It was pleasantly warm against his hand.

He'd encountered this patron more than once. He thought, though he was not certain, that this patron had seen him more than once. Each time, Laurent had been masked, and they'd been at a distance.

Once, Laurent had been in his box. He'd been in the shadows, impossible to see from the lower seats and difficult to see from the stage. There were the other boxes, but they never really paid attention. They were all glitter and gold, dressed to draw attention, and interested in others like them. But once, Laurent had looked out across to the far side of the boxes, and he had seen a young man, this young man, staring at him. Or, at least, staring at the shadows of his box. Laurent wasn't sure whether he could be seen, dressed in dark red with a death's head mask. He had slipped through his secret door, and away.

He'd seen the young man frequently after that. He was often at the opera house. He seemed to have open access to the place at any hour of the day or night.

Once, Laurent had been watching the rehearsal. He'd seen the young man on the stage. That had intrigued him, and he'd slipped closer, wanting to know if he was audience or performer, or merely being given a tour of the workings. Laurent had been as silent as ever up in the riggings, but this young man had looked up. Laurent had been all in white, with a beautiful, androgynous white mask with gold-painted features. The sailcloth then hung from the riggings ought to have hidden him in folds of white and ivory, and the young man could only have been gazing thoughtfully into space, but Laurent felt as though the young man saw him and saw through him.

There had been more than one close call in a corridor. Laurent had made note of the trap doors and secret passages that the young man had found and solved. It was deeply perplexing. It was concerning.

It would end here.

The glass walls and floor of the mirror room would be scalding to the touch now, though Laurent expected the young man would have better sense than to touch them. At least until he collapsed. The outside wall was uncomfortably warm against Laurent's palm.

The air inside the room, he had been told, would now be gaspingly hot. The young man would likely be feeling some degree of dizziness now, perhaps severe. He might soon lose balance or consciousness. Or he might stay conscious as the room became an oven, as it began to cook him, then to sear and burn, and eventually to char the skin and bones until nothing was left but ash.

The phantom had informed him that he would likely have to replace a few of the panes, after the room was activated. A few of them were always damaged in the process. He had said it with a touch of glee that made Laurent's skin crawl.

The young man would be in agony now. He would understand, now, that this room was meant to kill him. He would understand that all his stubbornness and folly and pride had led him to this.

He would be gone.

Laurent yanked the lever that deactivated the room. All of the traps could be deactivated or solved, if you were fast enough and could spot how the puzzle worked. But they also usually had failsafes on the outside. Christine, the phantom had explained, once got trapped inside this one.

The room went dark. It would still be hot inside, as the trapped air spilled out to warm Laurent's cold lair, but it had stopped heating.

Laurent stared into the dark cell, though he could see nothing. He realized, belatedly, that the mirror room was now darker than his lair, and therefore he was the one who could be seen through the viewing pane. He stepped quickly to one side, though the young man inside could not possibly have seen anything but a mask and a cloak.

It occurred to Laurent that he now had a logistical problem. A scorch mark was easy to tidy away. A young man was not. The mirror room had two doors. One of them opened, one-way, from an underground passageway that branched into the Parisian catacombs. Laurent came through there, occasionally, if he was in a hurry. The other door opened into the heart of Laurent's lair, for his own ease of access, or for the entry of those few allies the phantom might ever have been willing to spare.

It wasn't too late. He could still reactivate the room and dispose of the intruder. But something in Laurent balked at that. He was not certain whether the problem was that the young man was innocent--and he was, as far as Laurent knew, as far as he had heard from the rumors and gossip around the opera house--or that the young man was appealing.

And Laurent was so terribly lonely.

Loneliness had never been a problem before. It was a permanent state. It was a fact of his existence.

And yet, as he began to realize that the young man could not be saved without him being able to catch a glimpse, at least, of Laurent's domain, Laurent began to wonder whether he might just keep this intruder.

The young man had, after all, been very determined to find his way here. He could just stay.

Laurent paced, considering how to handle the situation. The young man was larger, physically. Significantly more muscular. Laurent had wiry strength, but he expected that if it were to come to a physical altercation, he would lose.

There was a firearm buried in a cabinet drawer. Laurent could fetch it, and hold it upon the young man, to make sure that his commands were followed. But there was something distinctly vulnerable about that. It betrayed fear. And, if the young man were to get a hold of it, the situation would quickly reverse. Laurent wouldn't be able to operate doors or traps while keeping a gun trained on the young man. It was too inconvenient an advantage.

Which was why Laurent was bare-handed when he opened the door to the mirror room. There was a knife in his boot that he was accustomed to using. If the young man attacked, Laurent could kill him with it.

Standing outside of the mirror room, Laurent waited. He was dressed severely, in a dark blue tunic, a black cloak, and black trousers and boots. His hood was up, and his face was covered by a plain golden mask. Of Laurent himself, nothing was visible but his mask-shadowed blue eyes, some stray strands of blond hair, and the pale, sunless skin of his throat and hands.

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The life of Richard Campbell Gansey the Third was a charmed one. Born into a family of significant wealth and status, he was afforded every luxury he could ever want. Hobbies, whimsies, loves and vices... there was little that escaped him. Any other man would have been content with living it up with a beautiful woman on each arm, drinking wine while throwing money at whatever thing crossed his interest, fucking famous sopranos and smoking cigars with their managers.

Such things, however, had never held his attention.

Despite his golden pedigree and easy charm, excess of wealth and the attention of even princesses on his ring finger, Richard Campbell Gansey the Third was not satisfied. To the dismay of his parents he spent a great deal of time running about their favorite opera house, looking for the supernatural. Their son swore that, more than once, he'd seen an angel. A ghost. A walking skeleton lingering just outside his field of vision, making his skin crawl and his heart race like nothing else had ever before.

They begged him to date. Begged him to flirt with the dancers, get into a scandal, even mess around with stagehands if it would distract him from nosing about the theater. Stubbornly, he had refused, insisting on adventuring below the stage when he wasn't laughing and charming the actors and actresses on it. He had a natural singing voice, they swore, with how velvety and smooth it was. But Gansey's fascination belonged to his ghost. His ghost, as he'd gotten into the habit of calling it, though the others referred to it as the Opera Ghost.

Figuring out the puzzles he found thrilled him. Some were easy, some were difficult, yet he somehow managed to puzzle out all that he ended up crossing. Even if it took hours, he worked nimble fingers and held rapt focus until he'd gently coaxed open another door, like soothing a shy lover.

It had not occurred to him that he might find something dangerous.

At first it seemed innocent. A room with mirrors. That notion, however, was quickly dispersed when it began to grow hot, and then stifling. Clever enough to puzzle the answer out, it was much more difficult to think when it felt like his skin might very well boil right off his bones. It seemed that his charmed life, his luck, had run out. And, startlingly, he'd accepted his inevitable death with calm and dignity. Like the handsome stone Adonis, he'd stood steady and still, knowing that to touch the mirrors would burn something fierce, green eyes clear and upward glancing.

Then, it was over. Darkness overwhelmed but he could see nothing; too dazed from the brightness of the mirrors before, all he could see was spots, blue and red and yellow, clouding over his vision. Panting, he bowed his head, feeling shaken and burned, yet relieved that he was alive. But why? How?

His heart threw itself into his throat when the door opened. Looking up, his pupils dilated and his gaze focused on—a man. Attention first drawn to the golden glint of his mask, he knew, somehow, that this was his ghost, even though that was not the carved face he'd seen in the rafters or in the shadows.

For a good moment he simply stared, still coming to his senses. When he did, he forced himself to straighten up and walk with heavy steps toward the door and his ghost. What else was he to do? He had zero desire to stay in the mirror room, lest it fire up again and roast him like a spring chicken.

When he was close enough he stopped, hand resting on the frame of the door as he glanced past the ghost for but a moment, wondering what on earth he'd dropped into. It was a quick look, however—quickly, his attention was back on the ghost.

"Who are you?" His voice was soft and rough from how parched he was, and very curious. Was this man his savior, or his demise?

The room behind the Opera Ghost was sumptuous. Above ground, the Palais Garnier was an architectural marvel, a Baroque masterpiece in ivory and gold. Here, in the phantom's grotto, all that beauty and genius was reflected in obsidian and silver, a dark mirror of the paradise above, and all the lovelier for its shadows. There was a large main room visible, opulently furnished, with steps leading down into the water of the lake beneath the opera house. A heavy metal grate protected this chamber from the lake beyond, so that even if someone were to venture so far beneath the opera house, they would get no further.

"I am the Opera Ghost," Laurent said, voice crystalline. He was a tenor, voice gently accented. He made no attempt to disguise his voice. His youth was obvious enough, since his tunic was fitted to his slender form and his hands were smooth and uncalloused. "And you have intruded upon my domain. You're lucky that I noticed that trap had been activated. You're lucky I've decided not to kill you."

Turning on his heel, though he knew that his prisoner must be exhausted after that ordeal, Laurent headed through an archway to the next room. He expected to be followed, counting on his prisoner's curiosity and his own air of command and threat. "Come with me."

Each space that they entered was another grand chamber with vaulted ceilings, dripping with rich crystal and black marble sculptures. Elaborate lamps and candelabras lit the way, glittering against the darkness. "The perimeter of this lair is strewn with traps like that. Most of them are equipped with one-way doors, and all of them are designed to kill. If you disobey any of my instructions, the oversight may result in your death. If you try to escape, you will certainly die. If you attack or defy me, I will kill you myself."

He spoke with a calm, modulated voice, as though he was merely discussing breakfast options for his guest.

Laurent unlocked a door and held it open, revealing an elegant and luxurious little room that had been arrayed in red and white. Unlike the intimidating decor of the rest of the lair, the little room was overtly feminine, and everything in it was padded. It looked like the interior of a jewelry box, or a prison for a princess. "You may rest here," Laurent said, having chosen Christine's room because it was the only room inside the lair that was designed to lock.

Had Gansey not nearly roasted to death in the mirrored room, he would have probably marveled at the grotto with more energy and interest. Even meeting the Opera Ghost was subdued when he was so utterly exhausted, throat parched and skin still stinging from the hot, bright glare of the trap he'd fallen into.

The fact that such a place existed beneath the Palais Garnier... so the old stories had been true. The legends of the Opera Ghost were not merely to scare away new patrons and weak-hearted dancers. Gansey could not help but notice, however, was that his ghost was noticeably young if those smooth hands were any indication. And also not a ghost—at least, not how he had expected. Not old and wrinkled, or transparent. He did not reek of death. In fact, he didn't smell unpleasant at all, as far as Gansey could tell.

Tired as he was, Gansey followed, interest leading him more than fear. He'd already almost died. If the Opera Ghost wanted him dead? He'd be dead. And there seemed to be plenty of ways for him to die. On his own, by the Ghost's hand, through traps... staying alive seemed like rather the burden.

Their surroundings were exquisite but the Opera Ghost held his attention most of all. More than the glittering candelabras and the oppressive darkness they fought. He had so many questions but no place to jut them in—and a weak voice to ask them in, throat raw still from the earlier trap.

It was only when they arrived in front of a startlingly oppressive padded room that Gansey truly caught his breath. "Wait," he begged, glancing into the room for only a second and feeling zero desire to tread inside. It reminded him of a gilded cage and struck him as eerie.

"Please."

Loose strands of hair fell across his forehead and curled, and his hazel eyes were clear and wide with curiosity. Cheeks flushed and shirt loose, he looked quite disheveled—understandable given the trap he'd tumbled into.

"Are you really the Opera Ghost? How long have you been here?" Perhaps he was one of the undead? A vampire? Sold his soul to the devil for eternal youth so that he might always haunt the Palais Garnier?

"I would... rather return to my own room to rest. Will you help me return?"

It had not quite sunk in that this Opera Ghost had no intention on allowing him to return. If you try to escape was not a warning that usually boded well for such things.

"No," Laurent said, not considering the prospect for a moment. The beautiful young man who had stumbled into his realm belonged to him now. It had been an aspect of the Phantom's genius that Laurent had never understood, the desire to possess someone. But now that his overly inquisitive guest had intruded, Laurent balked at letting him go. "This is your room now. You intruded upon my home, and you've seen my secrets. I cannot allow you to leave."

He continued holding the door to the room. Waiting. It was not a request, and the Opera Ghost's eyes were icy behind his golden mask.

Maybe he's too much trouble to keep. Maybe I should just kill him.

Laurent's heart beat faster at the thought, rejecting it with surprising vehemence. He had never before thought himself soft. It wouldn't be the first time he had killed a man, after all.

When his Opera Ghost said no, Gansey open and closed his mouth, a pretty flush spreading across his handsome features. He wanted to refuse but he was gentle; attacking the Ghost never crossed his mind. It wasn't in his nature to resolve things through violence. It was much more civil to reason... but it didn't look like the Opera Ghost was going to entertain that.

So he stood looking at the golden mask, pressing his lips together. He could promise not to tell anyone but there was no way he'd be believed; if he'd already seen too much, there was no way he could be trusted to keep it secret. Every argument he could conceive of he managed to swiftly debate on his own. All that left him was, But I don't want to. And it was highly, highly unlikely that the phantom cared about what he wanted.

The room reminded him of the daughter's room in his sister's dollhouse. Could he escape? He might, he thought, be able to figure out those supposed traps now that he knew they were there. Was it worth risking his life? What was his life, if he wasn't allowed to leave this place?

It was with great reluctance that he stepped into the red and white room. He would not give up hope. It was simply against his way; to choose to believe, to hope, even when it seemed hopeless. And, what's more—the real push—he was curious about the Opera Ghost. What was he? Why was he here? None of his questions had been answered. There was nothing he could tell, and while he wanted to reach out and touch the phantom, the man... he did not know how he would react.

Once inside, he turned to look at the phantom again, so many questions lit across his eyes.

"What are you?"

Laurent shut the door and locked it.

And that was it. He possessed someone now. A prisoner, beautiful and inquisitive. Like Christine. Not like Christine.

A thrill of emotions went through him, hot and cold at once. Excitement. Dread. Self-loathing. Yearning. Curiosity.

Ignoring his prisoner's questions and his own urgent desire to open the door and speak with him, or merely gaze upon him, Laurent walked away. He stacked a tray with a simple meal: slightly stale bread, cheese, a sausage, and a large pitcher of water. Both tray and pitcher were beautifully cast silver, with exquisite ornamentation.

Sliding open a panel in the door that might permit a child but certainly wouldn't permit a grown man, Laurent slid the tray through, leaving it on the ledge designed for this. Then he retreated again, going to the adjoining chamber, where there was a nook and a grate where he could watch the interior of the red and white room.

When he heard the latch, the sound of a lock being set, Gansey's stomach flip-flopped.

He had never been locked in anywhere before. One of the benefits of living a charmed life that was it was... charmed. Never denied what he wanted, never stopped from going anywhere. And now, within the span of twenty minutes, he'd been denied and trapped. Frankly, he didn't even know how to react.

Then there was food pushed through a slot for him. His appetite was starkly absent so he ignored it, glancing around the room once. It was not any better now that he was inside.

At first he paced. Rubbing his thumb, teasing it across his bottom lip, running his hand through his thick brown hair. Utterly restless. His shirt was cold with cooled sweat and he found it uncomfortable, so he stopped his pacing to slowly unbutton it and slide it off his torso, revealing sunkissed well toned shoulders and a finecut figure. He left the shirt draped across a chair.

He couldn't rest in the bed. There was no reason other than a feeling that kept him from even going near it. Another man may have shouted and banged on the door. Threatened the air, kicked, broken furniture. Acted violently. There was plenty in the room to throw and it had been clearly designed with such a reaction in mind, with its padded furniture.

Gansey settled on sliding his back down the wall in one of the corners of the room, leaning against the wall once he'd pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Sleeping was impossible; his mind was running on too many thoughts and questions. He simply studied the floor. The ceiling. Waited for... something. The phantom to return? A brilliant thought to cross his mind? He wished he had a book to write in. A leather journal was always essential to Richard Campbell Gansey the Third, but he hadn't brought one on this excursion.

Laurent felt distinctly unsettled. It was thrilling, at first, to watch his prisoner pace, and the revelation of his broad, honey-colored torso was riveting. Every part of him was beautiful, and his body was nothing like the spoiled, pampered young nobleman that Laurent would have expected.

But he didn't eat, which was concerning, and then he curled up against a wall, simply staring into space. It was upsetting.

After an hour of this, Laurent went to open the door. "Move the tray," he commanded. If his prisoner didn't want to eat now, he would certainly grow hungry later. The food would keep. "I'll take you to bathe, if you'd like."

Gansey barely realized that an hour had passed. He'd spent so many hours of the night staring into space, unable to sleep, that an hour felt like ten minutes. Jumping when the phantom's voice suddenly cut into his daydreams, he blinked, looking up and then over at where the food was sitting.

Perking up at the mention of a bath, Gansey pushed himself out of his corner and moved the tray as he'd been told, not wanting to make the Ghost angry over his food being left untouched. He didn't eat anything, still, but moved it over to the desk.

"I'd like that," he said, still uncomfortable from the way his sweat had cooled over his skin. He felt disgusting.

"Do you have a name?" he asked, wondering if the phantom would be more inclined toward talking now that some time had passed. "A real name. Not just Opera Ghost."

Laurent ignored the question, unlocking the door to let his prisoner out. He had a name, but he hadn't revealed it to anyone in years. Almost a decade, since he'd come here. "If you're cooperative, you'll always be rewarded. Baths. Fresh clothes. Books. Wine. Anything like that."

He led the way back into a large hall, and then down a smaller corridor to a bath chamber decorated with elaborate tiled patterns. There was a stove at the center, designed to warm the room and create steam if desired, and comfortable benches around the perimeter. A large basin took up most of one wall, practically a pool. Laurent went to it, operating some of the ingenious system of gears in order to pour heated water into the basin. It had all been designed by the Phantom, the sort of incredible water heating and pumping system that only the wealthiest private houses might be able to afford.

A shelf near the bath held a variety of luxury soaps and oils. Laurent was fond of luxury items, little pleasures that helped to make life in his gilded cage more pleasant.

Anything except a name, apparently. Gansey wrinkled his nose but kept the sass to himself. He didn't know if the Phantom would reward sass with a good knife stabbing, or something of the like. Though of memory served, the stories had said that the Phantom liked to hang his victims.

Following the Opera Ghost, this time Gansey was able to better appreciate his surroundings. It was truly exquisite. Had the Phantom constructed all of this? Had he found it this way? Gansey was endlessly curious. He was even more impressed with the bath chamber; it was cleverly constructed to keep its occupant warm and comfortable. Gansey was overcome with the urge to study the pumping system and puzzle it out, possibly even improve it if he could. It was fascinating.

But the pool and its clever water construction only kept his attention for so long. "... So you have no name?" This one refused to give up. "In that case, perhaps I'll call you something else. How about Frederick? Frederick is a nice name."

Crouching, he stuck his fingers into the pool, amazed by how easily and quickly the warm water came. The soaps and oils were also a relief to see—washing with water was good enough, but fresh smells were one of his vices. Mint was his favorite, and his trademark, but anything would do.

"It's an awful name," Laurent replied, disliking it immediately. "You're very glib. I am the Opera Ghost. You may call me that."

He settled on one of the benches nearby, still fully dressed. "Hurry up," he ordered.

There were fresh towels already waiting, everything the young man would need. Laurent watched him, feeling his heart quicken with eagerness to see him unclad. He allowed none of that to show behind his impassive golden mask.

"Ah..."

The Opera Ghost was going to sit there and watch him? Gansey wasn't a shy fellow. That, however, stuck him as a bit... unnerving? Blinking, he looked at the Phantom with a furrowed brow, trying to decide if he should bring up the fact that being watched while bathing was a bit weird. But the Opera Ghost had denied everything else so far. What was worse, Gansey had no idea what the Ghost was thinking. The mask betrayed no emotion. It was like being watched by one of his sister's creepy dolls.

Huh. He hadn't realized he had an issue with so many of his sister's weird toys, before this.

"... All right," he said, slowly, finally glancing away. Already naked up top, Gansey unlaced the fastenings of his trousers, sliding them down over his hips. His golden tan was flawless even along his legs and ass, build continuing to suggest a healthy lifestyle that wasn't often shared by his peers. He stretched his arms over his head, arched his back, relaxed his body before he eased himself into the tub.

The hot water felt heavenly. So good that Gansey momentarily forgot that the Phantom was watching him. He delighted in scrubbing his skin clean and smoothing his thick hair back away from his face. soaping up, choosing a scent that was similar to mint. Not quite the same, but also had a refreshing quality. Beads of water dripped down his body and face and he smiled, a dazzling smile, as he wiped away the dirt and sweat.

"What's wrong with Frederick? It's a nice, proper name."

Laurent didn't stare. He was too well-bred for that. He did, however, observe. His mask faced the wall, so that his captive was in his periphery. Guarding rather than watching.

And yet, his eyes flicked over frequently, noticing the well-formed body, the dazzling smile. "I don't like it," he responded, answering the question because there was no reason not to answer it.

He felt restless in his own skin. Suddenly he was unsure of how to hold himself, of where to put his hands. He sat very straight, shoulders and back tense, waiting for his prisoner to be finished.

"I'll fetch you clean clothes," Laurent decided, and rose. "Don't leave this room."

Walking out without waiting for a response, Laurent walked down to the end of the hallway, the last possible place he could see the doorway, and hesitated a moment. The nobleman didn't emerge. Laurent continued along his way.

He was quick about it. The Phantom had kept a wide array of clothes and costumes. Some of them fit Laurent, though they draped a bit on his smaller frame. The young man's shoulders were about as broad, and therefore the clothes should suffice.

Choosing a plain white shirt and black trousers, Laurent quickly returned, heart pounding with fear that his captive would have fled.

It was a chance to escape.

A chance that wasn't really a chance at all. He hadn't forgotten that the Phantom had mentioned traps, wasn't dull enough to think he could navigate this underground maze as well as the Phantom could, and still wanted to know more about this man in the shadows. So he simply continued to rinse himself of the suds and push himself up out of the pool, padding over to the towels and wiping himself down with one.

When Laurent returned, he was sitting on one of the benches, towel wrapped about his waist as he scrubbed his hair dry with another. Gancing up, he smiled a gentle smile when he caught sight of his captor, still nervous yet appreciative of the clean clothes.

"Thank you," he said, eyes lingering on the Phantom. He stood, taking a few steps closer so he could take the clothes and dress.

Laurent was just as skittish, even more so. He took a step back as his captive approached. Setting the clothes down on one of the benches, Laurent moved away, staying out of his reach.

The young nobleman was so beautiful. He had kind eyes, and a magnetic smile. Laurent wondered what his mouth would taste like.

As soon as the young man was dressed, Laurent walked out of the room, expecting to be followed. "You'll return to your room now. I'll bring you a book. Tomorrow morning you'll start work."

The clothes fit him well and he was relieved to be clean. Glancing one last time at the bathing chamber, he followed, disappointed that he had to return to the red and white room. A book was... fine, he supposed, but before he could ask what kind of books the Phantom kept in his collection, he said those words.

Tomorrow morning you'll start work.

"What?" Gansey cut in, sounding quite startled. "Work?" It wasn't that he disliked working. He often took care of his own business by his own choice. Pampering wasn't something he liked much, even if it came with being monied and of excellent pedigree. But... still. Work? He was a captive and he was also expected to do work?

"I don't understand. What am I working on?"

"There was a cave-in. I need it cleared." Laurent opened the door to the red and white room, expecting his captive to enter his cage again. "You look muscular enough."

Day or night didn't matter in his subterranean realm, but he was getting tired, and he wanted to give his captive a chance to rest before he put him to work. Eyes lingering on his captive, Laurent waited for him to enter the chamber so that Laurent could lock him in securely once again.

Gansey grimaced as he did as he was bid, stepping back into the red and white room. Was this the real reason why he was being kept? To do the dirty work that the Phantom didn't want to do?

"I can... try," he said, somewhat lamely, clearly not looking forward to being used for manual labor. However, didn't that mean that the Phantom didn't have any supernatural strength? Could vampire be struck off the list of possible creatures he might be?

Turning his eyes back on the Opera Ghost, Gansey's eyes lingered, still filled with questions.

"How about James? James is a fine name."

"Ghost," Laurent said, shutting the door and locking it again.

He went to fetch a book, as promised, selecting one that he liked, but not so much that he would have a problem if his captive decided to destroy it. He left it on the ledge where he'd left the tray earlier, and returned to the little room where he could watch. He curled up, hugging his knees to his chest and watching his young man. He wanted to be able to touch him, to speak to him, but Laurent couldn't cope with that. Just watching him from this close was more than anything he'd done before. A person knew about him. They'd exchanged words. And now this was his person, and he was going to keep him forever.

Just like that, Gansey was left alone again.

Sighing, he took the book from where it had been left on the ledge, lowering himself back down into his corner as he flipped through it. It wasn't one he'd read before and he did love books; he smoothed his hand down over the pages gingerly, smiled, held it close like holding something precious.

Even though his stomach gurgled and complained of hunger, he didn't eat. It wasn't appealing to him. The book, at least, promised to hold his attention for a while. So he read until he fell asleep, book still nestled in his arms as he leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed in light slumber. There was no knowing day from night down in the Phantom's lair. In a way, that helped. Normally an insomniac that woke as soon as the sun broke across the horizon, down here there was only darkness and candles. The disorientation confused his usual cycle. Not that his sleep was deep, and he certainly wasn't comfortable, sleeping on the floor in his corner.

Laurent eventually crept away to sleep, curling up in his overly grand bed and dreaming of the handsome young man he had captive. The dreams eventually soured into his usual nightmares, and he woke after a few hours, restless and spooked. He wanted to see his young man again, wanted the comfort and reassurance of his company.

Putting on his red death's-head mask and scarlet robes, he returned to the room with his captive, unlocking the door to let him out.

Gansey's dozing was more or less his usual amount of sleep: barely any. He might have caught a bit more if the sound of the door unlocking didn't instantly rouse him. Blinking wearily and looking at the door, he pushed himself up onto his feet and brushed off his clothes. Was it time to move rocks already? He was not looking forward to that.

But it was better than staying in the red and white room all by his lonesome. Gingerly, he stepped out of the room—only to have a mild heart attack by the Phantom's new costume. Which he chided himself for after—he was in the Opera Ghost's lair. Of course he was going to see some incredibly startling things. By that logic, the incredibly startling things shouldn't be startling at all.

It still spooked him.

He pulled himself together quite nicely, however, clearing his throat and offering his Opera Ghost a smile. There were bags under his eyes from the terrible sleep he'd gotten, and he still refused to eat, but such things were the aesthetic of a prisoner, he figured.

"Good morning. Is it time to... move rocks already? Fantastic." Not at all. Straightening himself up, he smoothed down the shirt he was wearing to have something to do with his hands. "I was thinking, you know, I never properly introduced myself. How can I expect you to give me your name when I haven't given you mine? I'm Richard. I prefer to be called Gansey, however. That's my last name. I like it much better than my given name."

Laurent hesitated when he was given the name, ending up staring for a moment before he repeated it. "Gansey," in an elegant voice utterly at odds with his apparel.

His blue eyes were striking, almost supernatural, against the red of his mask, and Laurent regretted his choice of costume when he saw how Gansey reacted. It hadn't occurred to him. He'd always worn an array of costumes, because they added to his Opera Ghost legend, just like it had for his predecessor, and that kept him safe. He hadn't meant to spook Gansey, and he felt guilty for it.

"This way," Laurent said. He led the way through the lair, which was a sort of underground mansion, and picked up a lantern near one of the outer doors. "Follow my path precisely," he warned, and led the way out into the underground tunnels.

It wasn't far, though the tunnels twisted and forked, inherently mazelike. There was a distant smell of rotted food, and somewhere a high rodent shrieking, like a wounded rat. Laurent ignored it.

The tunnel that had collapsed was one of the ones he used most frequently. He thought that it would be safe, if they could clear the blockages, since it was the side of the tunnel that had blown out, and not the roof. But several of the blocks were too heavy for him to clear easily, even with the help of tools, and he hadn't managed to clear the way enough to make a path.

He hung the lantern on a hook above a little platform where some tools had been laid. A crowbar, some rope and leather straps, and several wooden rods that he'd used to roll some of the rocks. Laurent, however, had only moderate physical strength, and that only from the basic amount of physical exertion--lifting gates and manipulating levers--that was required to maintain and navigate the lair and the opera house.

"Can you do this?" Laurent asked, because he needed it done, and he was very nearly at the end of his rope for getting it done.

While the costume was frightening, that voice... so clean, delicate, elegant. It was at stark odds with the Ghost's appearance. It was soothing. It was the kind of voice that Gansey could love—not that, he chided, he should allow himself to become besotted with the loveliness of the Phantom's voice. And his eyes were so human it was difficult to remind himself that he was trying to discover what manner of creature this man really was. How could he be human if he was so young, yet known for haunting the Palais Garnier for many, many years.

It was a mystery. One that was utterly intriguing.

Gansey followed as the Ghost commanded. At his warning, Gansey obeyed, not wanting to set off a trap and end up with a leg lobbed off. It was fascinating, how the underground worked. If only the people above knew about what was underneath them! The marvel muted a bit when he remembered that he would never be free to go and describe all of the wonders to them. And even more muted when he realized that also meant that he wouldn't see his family again.

When Gansey heard the shrieking and smelled the rotting, meaty smell, he felt sick. And sad. It was impossibly sad, even when a rat was suffering and dying, he thought. There was no time to stop and try to help it. They kept going.

Upon approaching the tunnel Gansey slowed, taking a good look around to assess the situation and how dangerous it was. The roof hadn't blown out; that was a good sign. Even if the stability was compromised by the wall being forfeit it wasn't likely to come all the way down and kill them unless either the breakage went much farther than it looked, or the other wall decided to collapse while they were trying to clean it out.

And, thankfully, there were tools. He had imagined he would have to dig them free with his fingernails.

Before answering, Gansey continued to assess the situation. He would make no false promises, even if it ended up with the Phantom choking him to death for being so utterly useless.

"I think so," he finally said, slowly. "I'll need water. For the larger pieces; it's easier to move stone when it's wet, particularly underneath it. With the reduced friction I should be able to pull them away."

Beginning to unbutton his shirt, Gansey looked at the Phantom, "If you can get me a few buckets, that would do nicely." Carefully folding the shirt in his arms, he laid it to rest on the platform so that it wouldn't get dirty, and began to stretch. Best limber up, if he was really going to do manual labor.

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