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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Laurent led the way though the lair into a room that was simultaneously cozy and vast. He lit a candelabra as he entered, casting warm light through the two-story room, filled with books of all shapes and sizes.

At first glance, the impression was of leather spines and large soft couches for reading, of polished wood and warm candlelight. It was only upon further inspection that the organization of the library seemed... odd. It was a difficult thing to quantify, but it was as though the library had been designed for a very specific organization, and someone had diligently rearranged all of the books. Some of the books were on shelves that fit them perfectly, while other sets of books were either too tall or too short for their shelves, placed sideways and sticking out.

Upon even closer inspection, it was clear which books had received recent use, and which ones were covered in dust.

The dusty titles were about architecture, and Persia, about crime and medicine, poisonous plants and methods of torture.

All of the recently read titles were about history and language, romances and ghost stories. There were cook books and adventure novels, and a book of fairy tales that was worn and tattered from being read so often.

Once the library was warmed with candlelight, Gansey opened his mouth in a silent gasp. He had been in many libraries before, but none so... interesting. There were the private collections of his parents' friends that were always boring and filled with books meant to make them seem learned yet not with a single crack in the spine, the mad libraries of universities that were a mash of everything one could think of, and the quiet libraries where scholars made their homes. Cozy yet vast was new.

The organization was also quite odd. Nothing like Gansey had ever come across before. Unable to keep his hands idle, he walked along the shelves, running fingers against spines and wood. It wasn't too difficult to pinpoint some apparent favorites. The books that were covered in dust Gansey mostly left alone; while he did have interest in architecture, most else didn't fall into his tent. History and language, even romance, and of course, ghost stories. Adventure novels, fairy tales... when he noticed one book he gasped and tugged it free, spinning on his heel and grinning.

"Oh! I loved this book when I was a child," he laughed, breathless. "Different fairytales of princes and princesses. Mother never cared for it because the stories were always a bit odd, but I thought them fascinating. Fairies and ghosts, things like that."

Gansey flipped through a few pages and then looked up. "It looks like we have some similar interests, Opera Ghost."

Laurent peered at him, puzzled as to how he could be so very cheerful about his fate. The brief sadness had faded away, like fog in sunlight.

Gansey's love of the library made Laurent ache. He felt pride and pleasure, charmed by how Gansey had passed by the Phantom's books and was drawn instead to Laurent's.

"My brother used to read it to me," Laurent murmured. He moved closer, protective of the book, as much as he was thrilled by Gansey's interest in it. It was the only book in the library that was his, a piece of his past.

With an inscription inside the front cover. For Laurent, with love, Father.

Laurent remembered the dedication suddenly, eyes widening as he made a grab for book.

So the Opera Ghost had a brother. Gansey made a mental note of that without comment; it was another very human thing, though he supposed any manner of beast could have a brother. One that read to him, however? Was that something demons did together? More and more, the man was beginning to look merely... human. Cooking, delighting in wine and literature, having family.

Then the Phantom lunged and Gansey's heart flung itself into his throat. He made no claim on the book, letting it go easily, since it wasn't his to begin with. Then he took three steps back to put space between them, heart beating quickly in his chest and expression alarmed.

"I—ahem. I apologize. I shouldn't have picked it up without asking."

While he was strong enough to possibly overpower the Phantom if the man decided to get rid of him, he wouldn't. Not enough to hurt the other man, anyway. A scruff was one thing. To kill? He would lose. All in all, his plan was to remain on polite terms until he could convince the Opera Ghost to let him go.

Laurent took one step back, hugging the book and watching Gansey warily. They stared at each other for the space of several breaths, and then Laurent remembered who he was.

His nerves and vulnerability vanished, hidden beneath his usual cool exterior. He kept hold of the book.

"You may help yourself to any other book in the library," he said, thumb cresting along the cover of the book. Not this one.

Was his luck so poor that he had chosen the one book in the library that the Phantom didn't want to share, or was it merely a show of power...? Gansey didn't know. To be allowed to look at any book in the library except for that one made him want to look at that one all the more.

"... All right," he said, slowly, though his curiosity had not cooled whatsoever. What was so different about that book? It couldn't be because he expressed that he liked it. Even for a Phantom, something like that seemed petty.

It struck him as odd then that he had some sort of standard for the Phantom. That, somehow, he knew the Phantom wouldn't stoop so low, though he had no real reason for thinking so.

Turning away, Gansey touched along the spines of a few other books.

"Is it all right if I spend some time here?"

Laurent nodded. It sounded like a request to be alone, and Laurent felt that Gansey had earned the right to make small requests. "Don't leave the library. If you require me before I return, open the door and call for me."

He hesitated over his book of fairy tales, but then he put it back on its place on the shelf. Gansey had obeyed all of his commands so far, and to Laurent there was no difference between an attempt to escape and a purloined glance at the book of fairy tales. If Gansey refrained from one, he would refrain from the other.

Heart aching with loneliness already to be leaving Gansey's company, Laurent left him alone in the library. He went to an antechamber nearby, intending to work on oiling the gears for one of the mechanisms, but all he could think about was Gansey.

The book was a constant temptation.

It was like leaving a buffet in front of a starving man. Ever curious, Gansey wanted to know what it was about that book that made it forbidden. In the end, he didn't open it. Testing the Phantom's limits wasn't something he was inclined toward doing. And... it may have been his imagination, but for a few brief moments, it had seemed as though the Phantom was as alarmed as he had been.

As soon as the Phantom left, Gansey was lonely. He instantly wanted to call him back and didn't understand why. There were a thousand books for him to read. He could plan an escape. As he thumbed through a few books that had caught his eye, all he could think of was the Phantom. All the questions he had. So little had been answered and, in return, he only had more curiosities. Nothing was making sense.

He was tired. He hadn't slept well since... even earlier than dropping into the mirror room. Now that the pressure of the white and red room was no longer plaguing him, he figured it might be easier to doze. So, reclining on one of the leather chases, he closed his eyes. The scent of books was a highly reassuring one, more familiar than anything else. Back home, he'd fallen asleep in the library many-a-time. It was the only comforting place.

Upon the Opera Ghost's return, he would find his captive asleep in the same position, head turned revealing the handsome slope of his neck, hair mussed, back of his hand resting on his forehead in a comfortable position.

Laurent returned after an hour. It was as long as he could stand, fearing that Gansey had escaped, or that he might need something, and also simply missing Gansey more than he could bear.

His heart softened at the sight of Gansey curled up asleep like that. He looked handsome and vulnerable, the most precious thing Laurent had ever seen. He knew in that moment that he'd give everything he had to keep Gansey. His lair, his books, the opera house. Anything.

Picking up one of his books, Laurent curled up in a chair opposite to read. He left plenty of space between them, not wanting Gansey to feel crowded, and only glanced over occasionally. It was easier to focus when he could keep an eye on Gansey. When he knew that Gansey was safe, and close by.

It was the best sleep he had gotten in months.

Not perfect, no, but between the exhaust of nearly being killed in the mirror room and then actual physical labor digging out the tunnel, paired with a hot meal and wine? Bodily and mentally, Gansey was exhausted. So he slept for quite some time, quietly, chest rising and falling gently as he did.

When he did wake, it was a slow process. Turning, stretching out, eyelids fluttering as his mind began to churn once more. There was no telling if it was day or night, no sign of yellow sunlight or pale moonlight to let his mind register the time.

Blinking, Gansey sat up. When he saw the Phantom sitting not far away he offered an apologetic smile.

"Sorry. Got a bit tired."

"I don't mind," Laurent said, because he didn't. The contentment of being near Gansey and knowing that his precious new companion was safe was more than enough for Laurent. His days were ordinarily quiet and slow, and there were no urgent priorities that he needed to handle. Attending to his beautiful young man was by far the most important thing on his to-do list. "If you're hungry, we can eat."

Sitting up, Gansey stretched his arms over his head and then rested his forearms on his knees. For a moment, he merely studied his ghost. There was nothing about the man that was expected. He didn't revel in blood, didn't run off to torture the singers, didn't even murder Gansey after he'd fallen into his trap. He cooked and read books.

"I'm all right," Gansey smiled. "Still content from earlier." Clasping his hands together, he leveled with his captor.

"Right now, I would very much like it if we could talk."

Laurent tensed. His experience interacting with people had been limited, but he knew perfectly well that we need to talk tended to be not a good thing. Gansey was altogether too rational, too calm and collected, and it made Laurent feel as though there was some information he didn't have, as though this was a trap about to spring. He was supposed to have the upper hand. Gansey was supposed to be his captive.

He set his book aside, tense and suspicious.

"Talk about what?"

Gansey remained calm when the Phantom grew tense.

"About you."

He had asked question after question and had received little in the way of answers. Only small things. There was still so much he didn't understand but desperately wanted to.

"I'd like to know about you. What you are. Who you are, why you're here. You've been very good about avoiding my inquiries so far." Now, however, Gansey was getting stubborn about it. There was no way he could simply read and enjoy meals when there was a mystery begging to be unfolded right under his nose.

"And," he said, "I... would like to know if there's anything I can do to convince you to return me."

"No," Laurent said, getting to his feet. "And no. I'm a ghost. I'm nothing. And you are mine."

His hands trembled slightly, unnerved by the inquiry. He was terrified of his past being revealed, dreading that it would somehow lead his uncle to him and that he would never manage to escape again.

He led the way from the room. "Come along. We'll gt something to eat."

Gansey rubbed his hands over his face. Was he to only be met with walls and darkness? The Phantom didn't even want to entertain any sort of discussion. He wanted to lay back on the chase and stare up at the ceiling dramatically, revel in the anguish of a mystery eluding his grasp.

But he stood. He still didn't want to chance the Phantom throwing him back in the mirror room because of disobedience. Following along, while he obeyed, he couldn't stop asking questions.

"How can I be yours," he asked, "if I don't even know you? I'm not an object. I can only be yours if I give myself to you." And that he could not do when all he knew was that the Phantom was a mystery.

Reaching out, he brushed his fingers against things as they walked. Anything within passing.

"I could give myself to a man. Not a ghost."

Laurent was perplexed by the topic. He yearned for the idea of someone giving himself, out of love, but knew he could never have that. He was tainted. Unnatural.

"You're my prisoner," Laurent said, by way of changing the subject. He was only half paying attention to Gansey, but when he saw Gansey's fingers reach for a hand trap, Laurent grabbed for him, pushing his hand away. His eyes were wide, chest fluttering with alarm at the thought of Gansey being damaged. "Don't," he warned. "It'll cut your hand off."

When the Phantom grabbed him, Gansey made a startled noise, but allowed his hand to be pushed without any kind of fight. His heart was pounding from the possibility of almost losing a hand.

"That would be," he said sadly, "a fitting punishment for an insolent prisoner, don't you think?" There was only so much he could do to reach out. If he was a prisoner, it was for the best that he started being treated like one, outside of being kept from his home. Otherwise, the ache in his heart every time he was rebuffed would only continue to get stronger.

"No," Laurent said, horrified at the thought. He let go of Gansey and took a step back, turning away again. "I won't hurt you." It wasn't a promise, it was a statement of truth. Laurent wasn't cruel. He wanted to protect the people under his care, those in the opera house and below it, and he wanted to protect Gansey most of all. He would not allow Gansey to be hurt.

"This place is dangerous," Laurent warned him, continuing along the way into the kitchen. "Be careful."

Gansey nodded enough thought the Phantom wasn't looking at him.

He had gotten the feeling that the Phantom wouldn't hurt him, but he didn't want to assume. Now he was given the promise. It only created more questions. Questions that would plague him endlessly.

"Will you at least tell me ... insignificant things?" Gansey finally asked, wanting so very much to reach out to touch the Phantom. "Your favorite color? Your favorite book? Do you prefer dogs or cats?"

"Cats," Laurent said, soft and hesitant, unsure about his answer. "I don't understand why you're interested. None of that matters."

He put the kettle on to boil, filling a pretty porcelain teapot with leaves and taking out a little box of pastries. Arranging them prettily on a plate, he set the plate in the center of the table. It was easier to focus on the tea than on his prisoner. His complicated, beautiful, fascinating prisoner.

"Don't you understand," Laurent said, interrupting, "that I can't let you go? Even if you promised never to tell, you might return, armed. You might bring others. You might return and die in the mirror room while I wasn't here to stop it."

You might mention that the Ghost was alive, a blond-haired beauty, among your wealthy circles, and the rumor might reach my uncle.

"I wouldn't," he said, softly, but he knew that the Phantom had a point. Trusting was difficult. Gansey could give his word and then turn on it just as easily. There were many men that would.

"But... I do understand."

The plate was beautiful. Gansey traced his fingers along the edge, admiring the setup.

"What I don't understand is why you don't just kill me. Do you keep every man that stumbles down here as prisoner? It would be easier, for you. To be rid of me."

"No one ever has before," Laurent said, honestly, and then realized that wasn't quite true. The phantom had told him stories about it. "Not in the past few years, anyway."

He set out cups for them both, along with sugar and a little container of milk.

"I don't want to kill you," he said, sinking into his chair and staring into his empty cup. "You don't deserve to die."

When the cup was placed in front of him, Gansey wrapped his fingers around it. It was cool to the touch.

So the Phantom didn't want to kill him. He didn't think Gansey deserved to die. Somehow, that helped him come to terms with his standards of the Phantom. He had been right. Despite the stories, the Phantom was not an indiscriminate killer. Else Gansey would have been dead from the start.

"Is there a way we can compromise?" he asked, studying his own cup. "I can't... I need to be outside. I need sunlight. Else, I'll surely die of depression."

Laurent hesitated. He caught the tip of his tongue briefly between his teeth, because something did immediately come to mind. "Maybe," he said, and poured the tea.

It would be a risk. He'd have to trust Gansey, and take him out of the lair. And if Gansey betrayed him and ran, he'd have to... what? Kill him?

But if he tried, it would make Gansey happy. Laurent wanted to see him smile.

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