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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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."

Gansey was also fond of comfort. He welcomed the blankets with a grin, cocooning himself in one with delight. Normally a warm creature, it was a little chilly in the library, and he'd been some time since he curled up beside a fireplace or in sunlight.

"Tell me a story," Gansey asked, lounging across the couch and watching the Phantom with curious eyes. "Of something that happened to you here, at the Palais Garnier. It doesn't have to be personal. A funny story. Something you saw. Anything."

He simply wanted to hear the Phantom talk.

Laurent hesitated, thinking for a minute before he began to talk. His story was halting at first, with nerves clear in his voice and frequent pauses as he figured out how to recount the story. He wasn't at all accustomed to recounting anything, having never had anyone to listen to his stories and thoughts. Not since he had been a child, at least.

As he continued talking, he started to relax into it, telling one story after the other as they spilled out of him, as he finally had someone to talk with. The things he noticed and cared about in the opera house were all the small, lovely things, and he cared deeply for the safety of the inhabitants, especially preventing harassment and assault.

Gansey listened with rapt fascination. Like a child listening to the tales of his elder, or a student eagerly learning from a teacher. And what he learned was truly magical; this Phantom didn't bathe in blood and bask in terror. He didn't murder innocents. It was more like he was a silent guardian. It was clear that he loved the theater very much, from the way he spoke.

Smiling, Gansey watched, eyes sparkling. Only when Laurent paused for a break from his stories did Gansey finally speak, "I don't think I can call you Ghost or Phantom anymore," he confessed, "because it feels more like you're an angel. Or a guardian." Corny as anything and he knew it, but he didn't care. How on earth was there such a genuine person lurking underground? The why still didn't make sense to him.

"Thank you. I liked hearing your stories very much. They belong in a book."

Laurent's eyes widened in surprise at the flattery, cheeks darkening to a deep rose. "I'm not an angel," he said, not in argument but as though it was a well-known fact. "I'm a demon."

Rising to his feet, Laurent hugged the blanket around his shoulders, eyes lingering thoughtfully on Gansey. He had a sudden urge to make him happy, to bring an even wider smile to that handsome, gentle face. "If you're not too tired, do you want to go for a walk?"

If Laurent was a demon, Gansey was tempted to change religions.

But before he could say something else that belonged in a terrible romance novel, Laurent stood, and Gansey's eyes followed him. "I'm not tired," he said as he pushed himself up, standing in front of the Phantom.

"A walk sounds lovely."

He stepped toward the Phantom and offered his hand, wondering if his captor would take it or shun him again.

Laurent kept his hands shyly to himself, but it was obvious shyness this time, unmistakable as anything else.

Leading the way out of the library, Laurent took him through the lair to his bedroom, no longer hesitant about letting Gansey see it.

The master bedroom of the lair was a gorgeous gothic confection, styled in black and white with accents of gold. There was a sweeping canopy spilling down over the flower shell backboard of the bed, which was large enough to comfortably sleep four people, with black silk covers over white silk sheets. The entire thing was absurdly opulent, and achingly lonely.

Reaching into a wardrobe, Laurent brought out two winter cloaks. He gave the larger, warmer one to Gansey. "You'll need to promise to stay quiet."

Gansey followed, keeping close to Laurent as they went. It was no longer out of fear of losing a leg to a trap, but rather a desire to stay close to the Phantom. His Phantom. The kindest demon he would ever meet.

There was no doubt what this room was. The master bedroom. It was perhaps the most ornate room he had ever seen, and he'd been toured around a castle or five before. No other room had flowed so perfectly. No other room had seemed so desperately lonely. It reminded him of the red and white room, in a way.

The bed was enormous. The sheets looked silky; he wouldn't be surprised if he slipped right off them, if he were to sit. Distracted as he was, he didn't notice Laurent go fetch the cloaks until he was offering one. Surprised, Gansey took and admired it before swinging it around his shoulders. It was warm.

"Okay," he promised, watching the Phantom with curious eyes. What did he have planned?

Laurent put on his own cloak, and then he took Gansey's hand.

Leading him from the lair, Laurent moved quickly through the underbelly of the theater. He glanced back at Gansey from time to time, making sure that he was still following and inclined to be obedient.

They rose layer by layer through the opera house, using back passageways and ladders, behind the stage and above it, to the base of the grand chandelier, and then up farther onto the roof. Laurent checked every hallway before entering it, and only relaxed once he was certain the roof was empty.

"You'll be quiet?" he murmured, the first words he'd spoken since he had left the lair below.

The roof of the opera was as ornate as the rest, decorated with angels and demons, cornices and curlicues, and above them, the stars. The lights of Paris splayed out before them, a spiderweb of gold light against the darkness, and the heaven above was threaded with diamonds. The night--Laurent's night--was filled with light.

When the Phantom took his hand, his heart skipped a beat.

Too charmed to try and stray, Gansey followed his Phantom faithfully, mesmerized by how deftly the man moved. He felt like Eurydice being lead to the world above, guided by Orpheus's hand. Only he did not fall back into the darkness when the Phantom turned to look at him and for that he was grateful.

Some of the passage ways and ladders the Phantom used Gansey had discovered before. That was how he knew they were up in the opera house, behind the stage, though he had rarely gone above it. Not out of any fear, but because the managers grew alarmed when it ever seemed like Gansey might be put at risk.

Up and up and up. To the heavens it felt.

And the heavens it was. The view of the roof was beautiful. So astounded, he could only nod, not even speaking his agreement again he was so struck at the sight before him. He had seen the skyline at night before. Never from so high, and never from such a prime position. Never with the company of beautiful angels and demons. Gansey barely felt the cold air that bit at his lungs with each breath, barely noticed the gentle fall of snow. A few snowflakes caught onto the curls of hair that swept across his forehead.

He squeezed the Phantom's hand and turned to look at him, his smile broad and dazzling, eyes glittering just as bright as the stars.

Startled by the squeeze to his hand, Laurent glanced over to find Gansey gazing at him. As though he was beautiful. As though he was precious.

"You like it?" Laurent asked.

He liked that smile on Gansey. Happiness suited him.

Laurent's heart gave a lurch, as he became acutely aware of the wrongness of keeping this creature of sunlight in captivity. Gansey belonged in the sunlight, a golden son with every luxury. He was too gentle, too good, to deserve Laurent's fate.

Heart aching, Laurent turned away, ducking his head.

"Yes," he breathed, keeping his voice low. He would have done so even without the promise. It felt like if he spoke too loudly, he'd disturb the angels, disturb the snow that was beginning to fall, somehow shatter the beautiful image before them.

"It's beautiful. Thank you for showing me this."

Gansey wanted the Phantom to look at him. It was—confusing—how his feelings were beginning to lean in regards to his captor. With his free hand he reached out, aching to take away the mask that covered his face, but he stopped himself. Instead, he brushed a stray golden lock behind the Phantom's ear.

"Is something wrong?"

Laurent flinched at the touch, afraid that he was going to be hit. Fear flashed in his blue eyes, silver in moonlight, and his breath emerged in quick puffs, flying away through the snowflakes.

Shaking his head, Laurent clenched his fist. "Happiness suits you," he said, going to the edge of the roof to look out across Paris. "You belong out there, in that glittering world. You shine as brightly as any one of those lights. It's wrong of me to keep you. Cruel."

Wincing with self-hatred and misery, Laurent closed his eyes.

Gansey remained still, curling his fingers into his palms when the Phantom broke away. Never before had he seen such fear in someone's eyes when he went to touch them. What kind of life had he known? What had this man been through?

Man. Because he was a man. Even if he was cool to the touch he still breathed, ate, felt as much as any man Gansey had ever seen. Maybe even moreso. No demon would agonize over keeping a captive, over how it was cruel to lock him away.

"Then don't keep me," he said, attention rapt on the Phantom's back. The words that left his mouth almost felt dreamlike. "You don't have to. I'll stay. I don't need any of that." Gansey surprised even himself; just days ago he was mourning the loss of sunlight and freedom. Now he was offering to stay with the Phantom of his own accord? Yet it felt right. He did not regret his words.

Utterly perplexed, Laurent looked over at him, trying to make sense of him."Why would you stay? You're free. You have a life out there. You belong out there. Promise never to breathe a word of me, then go."

Laurent nodded toward the city. Gansey could find his way down without difficulty, he was sure. Back the way they'd come, then out into the opera house, and the city beyond.

He'd manage, somehow. He trusted that Gansey would keep his secret. Laurent would go on as he had. Alone. As he deserved.

It was cold.

Gansey pulled the cloak around his body as he stepped beside the Phantom, looking at the sparkling city before them.

Free. He should be happy.

He wasn't.

"I don't want to," he said. "I don't want to leave you." It was utterly insane—but it was true. He didn't want to leave this man. Didn't want to leave him alone to the darkness and unforgiving solitude.

"Do you not want me?" Finally, he glanced toward the Phantom again, searching the mask for answers he knew weren't there. Only those eyes could give anything away.

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