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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When Laurent emerged from his bath, feeling much restored by the warmth of the water and the time to think, he found his lair empty.

Pacing through the rooms in search of Gansey, he found him missing, gone. He'd heard neither declaration, having been too far for the first one and the second having been drowned out by the sound of the water filling the basin.

Alarmed and heartbroken, Laurent searched the place repeatedly, finding nothing, not even in the traps. After an hour, he was distraught, and curled up in the library to sob with loneliness and betrayal. He'd refused to show his face and Gansey had gone. For whatever reason, whether to fetch a mob, to sell him for the bounty, or merely to give up on his company. He was gone.

Gansey awoke in Whelk's room with a throbbing headache. He wasn't bound by rope but he found the door locked; confused, he tried several ways to exit, and found it impossible. What had happened? A stray prop falling from a set? But then how had he gotten here?

Had the Phantom...? But this didn't make sense. The Phantom was nowhere in sight. Knocking his knuckles on the walls, he opened his mouth to call, but then remembered that he was topside and was keen on keeping the Phantom a secret. Never would he call the Phantom's true name, and calling for a phantom... what if someone was passing?

"Angel?" Gansey called, knocking where he thought the sounds may carry. Though he didn't know how far the Phantom was. "Are you there...? Angel?" Because truly, Laurent was like an angel, and Gansey couldn't think of anything better. He called again and again, and stopped only when the door opened. Whelk came inside, and Gansey stared at him.

"Praying?" Whelk's voice was without inflection, which Gansey found especially unappealing, and was holding a pistol casually.

"Yes," Gansey answered, taking a step back and suppressing a long-suffering sigh. Was it his destiny to be a damsel? Probably. Whelk closed the door behind him and stared. Gansey stared back. What did this man want? The Phantom? Unacceptable. He'd never give up the Phantom's whereabouts—

"I used to be like you," Whelk said, sounding depressed instead of apathetic. "Pretty. Rich. Beloved. Now I'm this."

Gansey looked around. It was... a less than stellar existence, sleeping on a scrap of fabric in a smelly little room down where no one else wanted one. "So...? You'd like money, then?" Gansey answered, frowning.

"No," Whelk said, looking at the gun, "I think I'd like to kill you."

"Oh," Gansey said, also looking at the gun. "I think I'd like not to die."

"A conundrum," Whelk agreed.

Laurent wept for hours or days, mourning the loss of his companion. He didn't know where to begin searching for Gansey, and there was no sign that he'd left by anything other than his own will. His own impatience and displeasure with Laurent.

When he finally rose from the couch, his stomach ached with hunger and his head spun. He drank two glasses of water and leaned weakly against a doorway, trying to recover. What now? Return to his ordinary life?

He needed food, but didn't want to eat. Sinking to the floor, he stared into space and lost track of time again.

A tiny bell drew him from his misery.

He leapt to his feet, heart soaring with hope. Gansey.

Taking two steps into the hall, he forced himself to pause. No. Something was wrong. Gansey wouldn't have left like that if all was well. Perhaps, merely, he'd left in a fit of frustration, and now he returned to beg forgiveness.

Wary by nature, Laurent put on his cloak, slipping into the hallway and hiding himself in a shadow. The black mask helped to conceal him, but he also drew his cloak up over his face to conceal the distinctly human ridges of the mask. Melting into a rocky alcove, he waited, watching and listening to be certain of who was entering his lair.

It took Gansey a long time to convince Whelk not to shoot him where he stood.

And even now, Whelk was still not convinced, but the promise of the secret riches that the wandering Persians and Gypsies through the underground secret tunnels and had to leave behind due to widespread famine was too tempting to ignore. All lies, of course, but Gansey sounded quite sure about what he was waxing poetic about and Whelk was intrigued by riches beyond his imagination that could restore his former wealth and status.

Plus, Whelk still had the gun. Shooting Gansey in some underground tunnels was even less work than shooting him in his room. Which Gansey was painfully aware of.

He chose the ways that he imagined were along the outermost edges of the Phantom's lair. He didn't want Whelk anywhere near the Phantom, and didn't want to put the Phantom in any danger. There had been trust in what he'd shown Gansey and Gansey did not want to destroy that. Besides—Whelk knew nothing of the Phantom. For whatever reason, he despised Gansey for being what he once was and no longer had. Bringing the Phantom into this seemed unfair. Yet he could think of nothing else but of leading Whelk into a trap; hopefully one that would merely disable him, as Gansey would feel guilt for... probably forever, if he were the cause of another man's death. Even if that man kept staring at him eerily with the desire to murder him.

"It's, ah... not much farther, I promise," Gansey said as Whelk made a comment about how far they had gone down. "The Persians loved being as underground as possible. It was written in their scriptures during 200 BC that—"

"I don't give a damn," Whelk said, "about your history lessons. Keep it up and I'll shoot you right now." The gun clicked.

Even at gunpoint, Gansey was offended. "Honestly, some people... all right, keep your temper. This way." He wandered a bit aimlessly, wondering when they'd spring a trap. Even if it ended up killing him as well.... at least Whelk would be stopped. Hand along the wall, he chewed on his lip, trying to decide which way would lead him away from where the Phantom dwelled. It was difficult, navigating, even when the Phantom had shown him. The darkness didn't help. So he was never one hundred percent sure as to where he was going. Not really.

"You're lying," Whelk finally decided, and Gansey stilled. "There's no mummy or Persian rugs, is there? Trying to buy time? Haha... so pretty, loved, and clever... aren't you?" Whelk held the gun up, and Gansey took a few more steps back in the door, desperately searching for some sort of switch to trigger—something. Anything.

Voices. Two voices. Gansey and... someone else.

Laurent's heart lurched painfully. Gansey had betrayed him, and was leading someone to his sanctuary. He trembled where he stood, forcing himself to stay still and quiet despite the rage and despair pouring through him.

They passed by him in the corridor, going the wrong way. Laurent couldn't make sense of it. Gansey was lost? The fool.

Moving silently and at a safe distance, Laurent trailed after them as they moved downward, listening. Persians? Mummies?

All at once, Laurent understood. Gansey wasn't leading this man to the lair, he was attempting to lead him astray.

Pulling a blade from his boot, Laurent stepped forward, pressing the icy edge of it to the stranger's throat. "If you hurt him, you die," he said, a soft rasp in this intruder's ear.

Whelk stilled instantly, going cold with dread.

Gansey, from where he was, could barely see. All he could tell was that Whelk was being suspiciously quiet; there was the sharp inhale of breath, but it didn't seem like they had successfully set off any traps.

Utterly silent aside from breathing, the drip of water from somewhere far off, and finally those low words like a breeze in the desert.

"Phantom?" Gansey asked, grasping the wall still, heart thudding in his chest. Whelk made a grunt but otherwise remained still; against gentle rich boys he had a chance. A phantom? Not so much.

"Go on, then," Laurent said, using the blade to tip up the intruder's throat, letting him know that he was a mouse being toyed with by a much more dangerous predator. "Hand the gun back to me. Carefully, now."

He kept the blade where it was, just heedless enough with the sharp edge that he could feel the intruder struggling to suppress his tremors. Laurent knew his part, and he didn't have much interest as to whether or not this stranger got out alive. He hadn't behaved with honor. Not like Gansey. Once Laurent had the gun, he pulled back the hammer on the heavy, coarse weapon, lifting the barrel of the gun to Whelk's temple. "Here seems as good a place as any to leave your body," he commented. "The rats will take care of it for me."

Whelk cursed, calling the Phantom a demon from hell. Gansey's heart lurched in his chest.

"Phantom—" he gasped, eyes finally adjusting to the darkness, but only enough to see the outlines of two men. But he didn't know quite what to say. No, he didn't want the Phantom to kill Whelk, but Whelk was a risk knowing the Phantom was here. Cursing himself again, Gansey bit his lip, hating that he'd so extraordinarily fucked up.

"I'm sorry," Gansey finally rasped out, dropping to his knees from exhaustion.

"I've put you in a difficult position again."

"Yes," Laurent agreed. "You did."

He pulled the trigger. The resulting blast was deafening, echoing as it did in the enclosed space. Whelk fell, body twitching.

Laurent stepped around him, tucking the blade back into his boot and picking up the lantern. He handed it to Gansey.

His own pause had surprised him. He'd paused for just a moment, giving Gansey a chance to react. To object. As though Gansey's opinion mattered to him, even after this.

"We're going this way," Laurent said, starting further down the tunnel and expecting Gansey to follow. They'd have to go out of their way no matter which direction they went. Down further, then across, and up, until they reached a high, circular chamber walled entirely with interlocking piles of human bones. A branch of Paris catacombs, from when the cemetaries of Paris had overflowed.

"You left," Laurent commented, half turned away from Gansey, but still very attentive to everything he said and did. He kept hold of the gun.

Instantly, Gansey regretted not asking the Phantom to spare the man, even if he'd been intending to kill him.

The feeling of nausea washed over him after the feeling of regret. Painfully numb, he followed without a word, hardly knowing where they were going and blinking dully when the finally got there. He didn't react in the least to the Phantom keeping the gun.

His response was delayed when the Phantom spoke. Throat thick and eyes red, he rubbed his hand across his mouth, like he couldn't quite digest what the words were. Left? Oh.

"Yes," Gansey said, voice thick with emotions unshed, "I did." Why had he left? "To get something," he recalled, looking away, at the wall, like it might have some sort of answer to a question that hadn't even been asked. "Then... something hit me. I don't know. I guess it'd been him, not a prop." That hadn't even really struck him until now.

"I... suppose I did something he didn't like." It was a faint comment, airy, like he still couldn't quite comprehend it all. Whelk's motives were still largely a mystery to him; wanting to kill someone merely out of envy? He couldn't understand that at all.

Gansey was dazed, distant, and Laurent had no patience for it. How dared Gansey need soothing and comforting, when this was all his fault? He'd left, he'd upset and abandoned Laurent, and then he'd returned with a threat and had needed to be rescued. Or was he in league with that stranger, that foul-mouthed brute? Was he upset because his partner had been killed?

Irritable, Laurent glared at him. He felt prickly with nerves and fears. Paranoia lapped at his fingertips. "Did you leave him?" Laurent asked, and then started walking again, pace fast with fear and anger.

He led the way to another chamber, with a vast staircase amidst the bones that led upward. "You can get out that way," he informed Gansey, still too infatuated with him to be satisfied with merely leaving him to die. "Don't come back."

"Did I... excuse me?"

That accusation brought him back down, staring at the Phantom with some disbelief and upset. He had made many, many mistakes—that he would freely admit—but did the Phantom think he'd done any of this on purpose? Gansey's lips tightened into a line.

"Do you mean that? Truly?" His voice had gone quite soft, dangerously so, pained in a way that made his throat ache. Don't come back. An utter fool, he was devastated because his captor didn't want to see him anymore. A fool for wanting to stay, a fool for hurting when told to go. Was there anything he could do right? It didn't seem so, anymore.

"If you say yes now, I will do as you wish. You'll never see me again. I promise."

His fingers curled inward, knuckles white, "But I won't have you think that I left Whelk. I cry, Phantom, for you." With that he wiped his sleeve across his eyes, blinking away the wet. "I'll take my journals. They're still in your kitchen."

Laurent stared at him, lips parting behind the mask. He felt choked with emotion, with vulnerability and uncertainty. Of course he didn't want Gansey to go. But Gansey had gone.

The soft ferocity of that voice made Laurent's heart pound. Did he mean it? No. Yes. If Gansey went, again, then Laurent didn't want to be tortured by the possibility that he'd come back.

"You just left," he said, struggling with the words but understanding that he had to communicate something to keep Gansey from making good on that promise. "Without a word. You were gone. For... for... I don't know how long it has been." He reached for his aching head to rub at it, but his fingers touched the cold black enamel of the mask. The phantom's damned masks, that Laurent had been wearing for years.

He tore at the mask, ripping it from his head with enough force that the ribbon snapped, taking a fine spray of pale golden hairs with it, and threw it hard. It skittered across the floor, face-up, lying mute amidst a fallen array of bones.

And Laurent was left unmasked, beautiful and more vulnerable than ever, lashes lowered and face averted, hands trembling as he realized what he'd just done.

Frustrated, Gansey opened his mouth to explain. That, yes, he had gone, but he had planned to come back. Why had the Phantom given him the option to go at all if he didn't trust Gansey would return? Whelk had thrown a magnificent wrench into his plan, for certain, but his intentions—...

Everything died on his tongue. For, in that moment, the Phantom looked as though he was in a fit of terrible pain. Then, there was the clack of something hitting the floor. Gansey's eyes followed the mask first. There it was, plainly, sitting in the dirt and grime. Abandoned. His heart beat furiously in his chest, like it might very well explode.

Then, in almost a haze, his eyes flicked up to the Phantom's face.

It was not what he expected. No scarring, nothing so hideous that needed to be masked at all. It was quite the opposite. The man before him was nothing short of beautiful, if not incredibly pale from how he lived. Stunned, Gansey could only stare before the rest of his mind caught up to him.

"Pha..."

No. The mask was gone. Gansey swallowed, fingers flexing in toward his palms though he longed to reach out. Fear gripped him, stopped him. He was a fool so many times over; fear of doing something utterly stupid cemented his shoes to the ground. This would be the worst time to jam his foot into his mouth or do something to send the man running.

"Laurent." Not knowing what else to do, he held his hands out, palms up. Offering.... offering nothing. Nothing and everything.

Shoulders shaking, Laurent lifted his hand to cover his face, fingers splayed, serving as a sort of mask. "Please stay," he whispered, regretting everything he'd done, everything he was, and wanting desperately to scramble for that mask, that shield, the only safety he had.

It was worth the danger, if he could keep Gansey. Beautiful, gentle, charming Gansey.

Taking a shuddering breath, muscles still tense, Laurent kept his hand up to hide his face, but didn't otherwise move. "This is why I'm hunted," he confessed, unable to bear looking at Gansey for fear of what he might see.

Gansey couldn't begin to fathom why Laurent's face was the reason he was hunted. There was absolutely nothing wrong with it. Even if there were, would that really matter? Laurent... he was a lover of books. He'd been kind when Gansey fell into his lair. He made soup. His face didn't matter.

But he was covering it, and not looking at Gansey. He needs me. The thought struck Gansey then, and a recklessness overcame the fear of doing something stupid yet again. Even if the man got mad at him—Gansey couldn't leave him alone. He was suffering.

So, with a deep breath, Gansey took long, purposeful strides toward Laurent. Reaching out still but this time wrapping his arms tight, pulling Laurent gently against his chest.

"It's okay," he said, trying to keep his voice low and soothing. "I'll stay."

Laurent winced at the touch, shuddering and tensing defensively at it. Gansey was so warm, despite the waves of terror flooding through Laurent's body. Being held was unbelievably difficult, because he hadn't been touched with kindness since he'd been a child.

The smell of Gansey, even a day unwashed and after everything they'd been through, was irresistible. He was so solid, so broad and strong and safe. Laurent's fingers tangled into the front of Gansey's shirt, relaxing halfway into the embrace as he let Gansey hold him.

Even as Laurent winced, shuddered, tensed, Gansey did not let go. He couldn't. There was a feeling in his gut... something that told him that if he let go, Laurent would crumble away into dust. Cease to be. Which, while utterly ridiculous, terrified him. Losing this man was unthinkable.

So he held fast. Standing still, strong, keeping quiet except for a soothing murmur here and there. Those fingers tangled into his shirt and his heart skipped a beat. So desperate, needing. No one had ever needed Gansey like this. Sure, they wanted him. Enjoyed his company. Projected those princely ideals onto him, expected him to be a gentleman and the perfect prospective husband. Yet no one had ever needed him. Him. Gansey. Not Richard.

Not the rich, well-bred man. The fool that had messed up a thousand times.

As the minutes passed, Laurent relaxed a little more, tucking his face into the curve of Gansey's throat. His breath evened, body becoming pliant and soft as he allowed his trust for Gansey to outweigh everything else. "I still don't understand why you left without a word. I thought I'd lost you."

His arms snaked tentatively around Gansey's waist, unwilling to let go of him and risk his loss.

Truthfully, it was difficult to recall what he even did, exhaustion settling so heavily over him. "I... called to you," he said, slowly, "when you were in the bath. I didn't want to—..."

Go inside. Which, now, seemed almost silly. They were both men. It wasn't like the Phantom was hiding any secrets, aside from his face, which he could have easily obscured. He'd been... shy. Why?

"I'm sorry. I should have known you wouldn't hear me."

"Idiot," Laurent groused. It was sharp enough to be a slap, but there was an undercurrent beneath the brittleness, that made it sound fond.

Likewise tired, feeling dizzy with exhaustion from the past two days of emotional trials, Laurent let go, stepping from Gansey's arms. He went to pick up the mask, though he didn't bother putting it on.

"Come on," he said, heading down a tunnel that led back home. After a minute of walking, he decided that Gansey was too far away, and reached back a hand to him, wanting to link their fingers.

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Heir of the Palais Garnier

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