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 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.

Laurent studied his eyes in return, desperate to trust him. Gansey's statements didn't make any sense. He wanted to stay.

"Come with me," Laurent said, turning around and heading back the way they'd come. He led the way through the opera house again, faster this time, and not holding Gansey's hand. They went a slightly different route, backstage into one of the mechanism rooms that controlled the stagecraft. "Look here," Laurent said, drawing his attention to the panel. He took Gansey's hand, guiding it along the edge of a panel, showing him where to press so that it slid open before him, leading into a lightless tunnel.

"This way takes longer, but it's safer," Laurent explained, drawing him into the darkness and showing how to securely close the panel again. "As you walk, keep your hand always on the left wall." He put Gansey's hand on it to demonstrate, and then did the same and began to lead the way in front of him. The route led them down along a sloping path, pitch black. "When you feel the metal bar," Laurent's voice said from just in front of him, pausing on the next step, "the stairs begin. There's a banister on your left. Feel for it."

At the bottom of the stairs, Laurent demonstrated the puzzle mechanism of the lock. "There's no trap on this one. It's safe if you make a mistake."

The door opened back into the phantom's lair. Laurent didn't mention that the door set off an alarm chiming elsewhere in the lair, and reset the alarm with a subtle gesture as he shut the door. "In any hallway in the lair with black tiles in the floor, keep close against the walls."

Further into the lair, Laurent showed him another door, showing him again how to operate it from both sides and taking him through it up through a long sloped tunnel to a locked gate and showing him, again, how the puzzle on the gate mechanism operated.

"There," Laurent said, at last. Gansey was free to go, and free to stay. "Go on," he said, nodding toward the velvet night outside. "I'm not going anywhere."

At first, Gansey was confused. He followed Laurent back into the Opera House and managed to keep up despite some difficulties; it wasn't so bad, having explored the place some on his own, and being lead by the Phantom before. Everything he was taught he marveled at. There was so much more that he never even imagined; it was nothing he would have discovered on his own. Or, maybe, if he spent years looking and learning. A diligent student, Gansey memorized and nodded once he understood.

It didn't take long for him to realize why the Phantom was showing him so many things. So he was free to go and free to stay. It was an amount of trust that he hadn't expected and it took him aback, whatever strange feelings he'd been wrestling with only deepening.

Gansey glanced at his way out and then looked back to the Phantom. His Phantom. He wouldn't be going anywhere. He was free to see him.

"May I leave something with you for safe-keeping?" Gansey asked, holding out his hand again, wanting the Phantom to give him his.

Laurent nodded, expression still safely hidden behind his mask, with only his shining, wary blue eyes to betray him. He reached out his hand, slightly cupped and fingers slightly curled, as though to beckon.

Gansey was leaving. Gansey wanted to stay. Gansey might never return. Gansey might bring back a mob against him.

Unnatural and hunted as he was.

Laurent's fingers trembled, but his arm remained steady. He wanted to trust Gansey. He wanted to believe that there were trustworthy people in the world.

Gansey's fingers slid beneath the Phantom's until his palm was pressing against the back of the man's hand, thumb tracing along its ridge. A man. Goodness, a man. Gansey's heart ached something painful.

With the other, he carefully pressed his signet ring into the Phantom's hand. It was a simple ring. Golden, with a small circle with their family crest—the horns of an elk wrapped in vines. It was a precious piece of himself, the only thing he had inherited that had felt like it really was meant to belong to him.

But he didn't step away once he gave the Ghost his ring. Bowing his head, Gansey kissed the other man's palm, doing it without thinking. The Phantom's fingers felt cool against his lips. A thrill shot through him.

"I'll come back," he swore, stepping back and studying the Phantom once more. And then he was gone.

Laurent's fingers closed around the ring, and he curled his arm in, holding it protectively to his chest, just over his pounding heart. He stood in the doorway, watching the darkness, for a long time. He wanted to go after Gansey, to make him stay, to beg or threaten, anything to have him back.

Having made his grand gesture, Laurent regretted it. He'd thought, in the moment, that the worst would be the necessity of trust, the fear that Gansey would betray him. Instead, immediately, it was the missing Gansey that hurt most. His heart felt like it had been torn from his chest, and he felt half mad with yearning to have Gansey back with him.

At last, starting to shiver in the night air and knowing that dawn was approaching, Laurent shut and locked the door.

He retired to the library, laying down on the couch where Gansey had slept. Turning the ring over and over in his hand, he studied the sigil, remembering the feeling of Gansey's lips against his hand.

Gansey wouldn't come back. Gansey would betray him.

Agonized with longing and dread, Laurent stayed for hours upon the couch, sleeping fitfully. He felt no desire to eat or to stir from the couch, mourning the loss of the first person he'd truly cared about.

Freedom was no longer so sweet.

Gansey missed the Phantom immediately. He had turned around not once, not twice, but three times ready to return before he even got all that far. Then he chided himself. He'd been missing for days and there was no doubt that his family and the managers of his favorite Opera House were worried sick.

When he returned to them on the brink of morning, he lied through his teeth and told them a fantastical tale of getting distracted on one of his adventures. It was a passable lie. Going off on his own for some time wasn't totally unusual—only he usually warned them first.

The only one who stared at him in an unnerving way was one of the stage hands. A man that had once come from a family of wealth, he was reduced to nothing when his family lost it all, now left abandoned to clean dead rats from backstage. His name, Gansey believed, was Barrington Whelk. The look in his eyes as he studied him was one that made Gansey distinctly uncomfortable, though he wasn't sure why. It wasn't because he got the sense that the man knew he was lying. It was something else.

Gansey avoided him.

After some hours, after he'd been left alone again, his ache for the Phantom had grown to an almost intolerable point. Which was why he collected some of his journals and began to explore the way the Phantom had shown him to return, this time giving his family warning that he was off to adventure once more. They wouldn't think to miss him this time.

"Ghost?" His voice was coaxing, and he held his books tight to his chest when he wasn't using a hand to trace along a wall.

Laurent was awoken by a soft, subtle bell. It kept ringing, nudging at the edges of his consciousness, until he opened his eyes and sat up. A bell. An alarm. Gansey.

Leaping to his feet, Laurent sprinted for his room, fetching a soft black velvet mask in the Italian larva style and a cape to cover his head and shoulders. He took no lamp, navigating carefully through the darkness to find Gansey.

There was only Gansey's voice, coaxing, and only Gansey's footsteps. No echoes of conversation or murmurs. Jittery, Laurent listened and waited for a few minutes as Gansey moved along the corridor, making sure he was alone.

"I'm here," he said at last, quiet in the blackness. "I didn't bring a lamp."

At first he had been worried that the Phantom would not come. It was dark and difficult to see. Had the Phantom lied? Would he vanish? Worry ate at him until he heard the lovely voice from the darkness. Sighing with relief, Gansey squinted into the darkness, trying to see his Ghost's figure. It was too difficult.

"You're very good at navigating in the dark," Gansey laughed, a little breathless. The worry lifted off of his chest and he held his books tight. "I've brought some books. Well, journals. You told me so much about the Opera House that I wanted to repay the favor. I've written down some stories of my own; I've been a few places, I've met some interesting people. I thought you might like it."

Feeling a bit silly now, he bowed his head, still trying to adjust to the darkness.

"Did I disturb you? I know I wasn't gone for very long." Even if it had felt like forever.

"I thought you wouldn't return." Laurent reached out, touching Gansey's arm and moving from there down to his hand. He stayed quiet for a moment, ears pricked, but he heard nothing but Gansey's breath.

Winding their fingers together, Laurent led him back into the lair. He set the locks behind them, and took off his hood, but left the black velvet mask to hide his features. He didn't know what to do or say. Gansey didn't belong here, and yet he'd returned.

Laurent kept hold of his hand, unwilling to let go of him.

The Phantom touched his arm. The Phantom threaded their fingers together.

Gansey's felt like his heart might burst. It was ... a little alarming, the feelings he was experiencing for the Phantom. Like a cut from a knife, carving down his chest. Yet they weren't bad feelings. Merely new. Which was why he didn't answer right away. As the Phantom lead, Gansey squeezed his hand.

The lair was the same. Of course it was—he hadn't been gone very long. Yet somehow it felt like it had been longer than it was.

"I missed you," he said quietly, watching the Phantom with glittering eyes. Oh, how he longed to see the Phantom's face. Know the Phantom's name. There was no way Gansey could be satisfied not knowing more.

It seemed impossible, what Gansey said. Gansey, this golden, wonderful creature, had missed him? Him, the unnatural monster beneath the opera house?

He didn't let go of Gansey's hand, studying him in return, awed by his existence, his presence here, his having kept his promise. "You came alone?" he asked, though that seemed obvious. There was no one else with him. They were safe.

Hovering close to Gansey, wanting to give him some gesture in return, Laurent squeezed his hand, forgetting, in that moment, Gansey's ring upon his finger, as if it had been a betrothal gift from his lover. "My name is Laurent," he murmured, very quiet, willing to trust Gansey with one more secret.

"Of course I came alone," he said, sounding surprised at the question. "I promised. And... I would not want anyone to harm you." The legends of the Opera Ghost were filled with blood and horror. Even today, what happened years ago still frightened those who visited. Gansey had no doubt that if he so much as mentioned a fleeting glance of a man beneath the theater that there would be a witch hunt.

But before he could say anything else, the Phantom murmured, and Gansey stared. Had he just said what he thought he said?

"You..."

The Phantom ... had told him his name. Laurent. Gansey's guesses hadn't even been close. Cheeks coloring though the dimness of the lair did nothing to advertise it, Gansey continued to stare, surprise breaking into a delighted smile.

"Laurent," he breathed, "is a lovely name."

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