marlowemuses | Heir of the Palais Garnier

Entry tags:

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Laurent nodded, more willing to answer questions now. Gansey had been entirely cooperative, and he was beginning to feel more like a companion than a prisoner. "As long as you're here, since I can't let you go. There are many things that need to be done, but I've been incapable of doing them by myself. Some of it requires strength, some of it requires a second person. It will be things like clearing the tunnel. The rest of the time we'll spend as you've seen. Reading, cooking, sleeping. If I have to leave the lair for anything, I will have to lock you in Christine's room."

The name was out before he realized his mistake, and then Laurent tensed, eyes widening very slightly with alarm.

"Christine's room..."

He echoed the Phantom's words, thoughtfully, studying the rim of his cup. Perhaps that was why he felt so uneasy in that room. Christine. They had all heard stories about Christine.

"That was the woman you loved, wasn't it?" He could only assume the Phantom had kept the room the same because he wanted the memory of her. Even if it was difficult to fathom that this young man was at least... what? Sixty?

Questions, questions, questions.

"I'm sorry. That's a rude question." He took a sip of his tea.

Laurent hesitated, tense. His hands tightened around his cup.

It hadn't been him. He didn't love Christine, never would have. He wouldn't have built a cage for someone he loved.

The question threatened his identity. He'd built his entire life around the lie that he was and had always been the ghost of the opera house. And yet, what would it matter if Gansey learned the truth? Surely he could never tell anyone of it. It was one of Laurent's greatest secrets, but he was already keeping Gansey here in protection of lesser secrets.

"I wasn't the one who loved her," he answered, staring into his tea.

"Are you talking about... Vicomte de Chagny?" he asked, glancing up at the Phantom with a bit of wonder. Wasn't that how the story went? She had loved the viscount who was a patron of the Palais Garnier. And they had left, together, a long time ago. Never really telling what happened those times the singer had vanished.

"I don't think that invalidates your feelings. Though I'm not sure I'm terribly fond of the room you kept her in. It's very... stifling." That was putting it delicately. It felt like a pretend room, like a place you might put something pretty. It was why Gansey still couldn't bring himself to really sleep in the bed.

"No," Laurent said, irritated by the misunderstanding, the assumption that the Phantom's actions had been his own. He set his cup down sharply. "That's not what I mean."

He tightened his fists and stared at the edge of the table, hating the thought of being... that. Even though he'd assumed for years that he was. He wasn't the Phantom. He didn't relish that fear and cruelty. He couldn't bear to kill indiscriminately.

"I mean that it wasn't me."

"It wasn't...?"

Gansey looked up, startled. I mean that it wasn't me. That was much more difficult to misunderstand.

Suddenly, the two chairs made sense. The Phantom had not dined with Christine—or perhaps he had, Gansey didn't know—but he had also dined with...

Gansey put his cup down as well, only he did so much more delicately.

"I'm afraid I have too many questions to bear."

Panic rising, Laurent's mind blurred, thoughts dwindling to a single flare of terror. The situation was too much for him, too close to all his secrets, which would put him too close to being caught, trapped, hurt...

He stood fast, walking from the room. Fleeing. But there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. The layout of the lair was open. There weren't many doors, only archways and high ceilings. It wasn't designed for hiding from people.

Laurent's heart was stuttering, breath rapid, head spinning. He was awash with panic.

Unsteady, he wobbled, leaning heavily against a wall just outside of the room. He needed to flee. He didn't know where to go. He hadn't not had an escape from something since he'd arrived here, because he'd always been able to retreat here. But now, within his lair, there was no where to hide.

Gansey started when Laurent stood, cups of tea shaking on the table.

He was—running away? Even though he was a captive of this man, Gansey was worried. He had looked so frightened.

It was the perfect time to flee if he was going to try that. However, the thought didn't even cross his mind. Gansey stood and followed the Phantom, finding him panting outside the room, using the wall as support. Before Gansey had been nervous about touching the man; now, he reached forward to gingerly touch the Phantom's back, rubbing in slow, soothing circles.

"Hey. It's all right." Even his voice he tried to keep low and soothing, trying to coax the Phantom out of his panic attack. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

Laurent jolted away from the touch, watching him warily, like a dog expecting to be kicked. "Don't touch me."

Gansey was gentle. Soothing. It didn't make sense. Laurent didn't know how to react to someone like this. Someone kind.

He frowned, confused, searching Gansey's face like he was trying to make sense of him, trying to find a scrap of approval or safety.

When the Phantom jerked away from him Gansey pulled his hand back, watching the man with concern. Brow furrowed and lips parted slightly, wanting to say something soothing but not knowing how to approach.

He didn't touch again but he stayed close, looking worried. Wanting to help. Wanting to offer comfort or safety or... something. Truly, if this wasn't the original Phantom, then who was he? And why was he here? All alone.

"I don't want to make you upset."

"Why did you come?" Laurent asked, brow furrowed with pain and uncertainty. "Why did you have to unravel all my secrets? Why must you be so terribly stubborn?"

Shaking his head, Laurent drew himself up, collecting his dignity and hiding behind the emotionless mask of the Opera Ghost. "I'm fatigued. I want to rest. There's nowhere I have to keep you safely other than the red and white room. There's no other bed but my own."

Gansey felt guilty. Expression pained, he stepped away from the Opera Ghost, hand dropping to his side. Being stubborn wasn't something he could help. He hadn't meant to fall down into the Phantom's lair. With each secret, it could feel his freedom slipping away. The Phantom would not let him leave now. Not when he knew the truth. Even if he promised he'd never tell, that he'd not breathe a word, the Phantom would never get a wink of sleep knowing Gansey was running around topside with so much knowledge.

The thought of having to return to the red and white room filled him with dread. Especially now that he knew that it had been made for Christine. Somehow, that made it worse. Knowing that she had been trapped in there.

"Then let me stay with you," he said, voice quite soft, imploring. "I won't run. I promise. Just... I don't want to go back there. You can tie me up if you wish."

Edited 2016-11-14 02:09 (UTC)

Laurent shook his head. He couldn't bear the thought of being watched as he slept. He'd be vulnerable. Gansey might kill him, or take away his mask. Or worse.

"The library," he suggested. "You can sleep on the couches again. You understand now, that it would be dangerous to leave the library alone. So many of the things he designed are lovely, but terrible. Even here, in his sanctuary, he filled the rooms with cruel deathtraps. The library is safe for you."

Laurent pushed away from the wall, meaning to take him there.

Even though Gansey knew the truth, it was still incredibly strange to have this Phantom speak about the old Phantom. His sanctuary. He filled the rooms.

Gansey nodded. He did understand. There was too much danger in trying to navigate through the lair on his own. Without the Phantom—the young Phantom—he would be toast.

Unable to help himself, Gansey reached out and brushed his fingers against the small of the Phantom's back as he followed him, meant as a soothing gesture. "Thank you."

Laurent startled away at the gesture, scowling distrustfully at him.

The light touch had made shivers go down his spine. Only a touch, and it filled him with the yearning to press closer, to yield, to trust. He didn't understand how that was possible. Either Gansey had some mysterious power or influence, or the mere fact of his aesthetic appeal was enough to create this impact upon Laurent's senses.

He glared for a moment longer, pale cheeks flushed dark with blood, and then continued leading the way to the library.

Gansey's eyebrows shot up into his hairline at the scowl. He had to remind himself that the Phantom was not used to touching, that the Phantom was so often alone. Maybe the man didn't even like any kind of contact.

Quiet as he followed his captor to the library, he tossed all of his thoughts and questions in his mind. Who would choose to live down here? Yes, it was fascinating and beautiful, but it was also... very lonely. If Gansey was here alone he would have left to find someone to explore it with him. The darkness was quite advanced. The traps were dangerous.

Gansey's heart ached for the other man. Left alone in darkness, away from the rest of the world. Poor creature. What kind of life had he known?

Once they reached the library Gansey sat down on the couch, offering his wrists to the Phantom.

"I expect I'll be tied up, then?"

"No," Laurent said, startled by the suggestion. His eyes widened behind his mask, taking a step back. He hated the idea of tying up Gansey. If he'd been anyone, it would have been unpleasant. To tie up Gansey was unthinkable. "You're free to go where you like in the library. As far as I know, the entire place is safe. You understand that leaving the library on your own could get you hurt, and I trust you not to do anything reckless."

Laurent's eyes lingered on him.

Taking a step back, Laurent turned away. "Is there anything else you need, before I go?"

"I do." While he was adventurous, he wasn't reckless. Gansey had no desire to lose a leg. If the Phantom wasn't going to tie him up he saw no reason to complain; it wasn't as though he wanted him to.

Gansey's gaze lingered on the Phantom's in return. He longed to ask the Phantom not to leave. Being alone, even in such a marvelous place, wasn't ideal. It left him alone with his thoughts, his constantly churning anxiety, and left him melancholy. Books were a good distraction normally but too much had happened. They wouldn't work this time.

Opening his mouth at first, he closed it a second later. No. It would be selfish to ask the Phantom to stay with him. No doubt the man tired of his annoying captive. So Gansey shook his head.

Looking up again, he pressed his lips together before asking, softly, "Aren't you lonesome, here?"

Laurent had turned to leave, but the question made him pause. His fingertips strayed along the edge of the doorframe, thinking. "I suppose so," he murmured, not looking back. "I don't know anything other than loneliness."

His jaw tightened briefly, visible beneath the edge of his mask. "Well, I suppose, loneliness and pain. What does it matter, then, if I'm lonely?"

Heart aching, because he wanted to stay, he wanted Gansey's company and attention, Laurent took another step, meaning to leave. He was safer alone, and Gansey was safer here.

Gansey watched from where he stood, making no moves to or away from the Phantom, yet he felt strongly compelled to move toward the man. Loneliness and pain. To have that be all you knew... he couldn't imagine how that might be.

No one deserved that. Maybe the man who had delighted in torture, had found joy in trapping and scaring. But this Phantom? No. So far, he had only shown Gansey kindness. He saved his life. Then, he fed him and kept him safe.

"You don't have to be, anymore," Gansey said, finally taking one step in the other man's direction. "Stay with me."

Laurent looked back. Hesitating in the door frame, his pale blue eyes flicked over Gansey's expression and pose, trying to make sense of the offer.

"Why?" he asked, voice catching on the word. He'd thought that Gansey hated and resented him as captor and tormentor. This didn't make any sense.

He wanted to stay, despite himself. Gansey was gentle, intelligent, kind and careful. Laurent wanted to bask in his company.

Head ducking a little, showing a moment of shy submissiveness, Laurent studied him.

Why?

It was a good question. Frankly, Gansey didn't even fully understand, himself. The Phantom had made it clear that he would not allow him to return home.

But... the Phantom had done nothing cruel. The Phantom had cooked for him. Cared for him. Not even his parents—...

They often saddled him off on nurses and teachers as he was growing up. Now, they wondered why he didn't stay with them or adhere to their desires. His parents had never expressed as much concern for him as the Phantom had, and he'd been with his captor for... perhaps two days?

Despite everything, he couldn't help but to think that the man was kind. Even in all of his loneliness. And while Gansey was always surrounded by people... he'd been lonely, too.

"I understand," he said, slowly, still studying the Phantom. "You may not believe me. I'm sure it sounds preposterous, me, understanding loneliness and pain. But I do. Quite vividly, in fact." It was difficult to admit. "It hurts. Even when things dull with time, when you think you can ignore it or pretend like it isn't there. It always hurts."

Bowing his head and closing his eyes, he sighed, not sure if he was expressing himself right. The Phantom was going to think he was a fool.

"When you're not alone, when you're with someone who understands and cares, maybe it can heal. I'd hope I could help ease your loneliness. Your pain."

Laurent returned halfway, hesitant and shy but yearning to be able to trust. Surely someone like Gansey, someone so gentle and beautiful, would not hurt him.

Blue eyes flicked over Gansey's face, trying to make sense of him.

Gansey wanted him to stay. Laurent didn't want to be parted from him.

Sitting down on one of the soft couches, Laurent kept his eyes on Gansey, wary and curious. Gansey wanted to understand and care.

"You can tell me," Laurent said, curious now about Gansey's suffering and wanting to try to offer a sympathetic ear, even though he wasn't sure how to go about that. "I'll try to understand."

The Phantom sat down on one of the couches so Gansey followed suit, lowering himself down onto the seat and making himself comfortable. So he was going to stay—for now, anyway.

It made Gansey smile.

Which switched to surprise rather quickly, because Gansey hadn't been planning on talking about himself. He had only been trying to show that he understood. Blinking, he blushed and glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Oh, that... I didn't mean I wanted to complain. I'm sorry." It was the first time he'd admitted his feelings before. "It's just... ah. I'm sorry. I'm not used to talking about it. I guess you could say that I'm very much a black sheep, even if I'm good at pretending otherwise."

"You don't have to tell me anything," Laurent said, to reassure him. "Only if you want to. I'll listen."

There were blankets and throw pillows throughout the library. Laurent was fond of comfort. Rising to his feet, he fetched several of them, bringing them back to plop on Gansey's couch. He kept only a couple for himself, bringing them back to his own couch. Slipping off his shoes one at a time, he hugged his knees up and spread a blanket over them for warmth.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, picking at some fluff on the blanket so he could focus on something other than his nerves. "While I'm staying."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject