Nobody expected a voice like hers to emerge from the wings, let alone with a spirit so sharp. The Opéra Populaire might have wished for a pretty face and voice with not much behind it, but what they got was Y/N.
The Phantom of the Opera is used to being feared. He is used to being avoided. What he is not used to is a woman who looks him in the eye and dismantles every law of his existence - the belief that he is fundamentally loathsome, and doomed to solitude.
In an era of stifling propriety, Y/N is the anomaly. She isn't a muse to be molded; she is his peer, and his most profound undoing. As it turns out, the only thing more dangerous than the Opera Ghost might be the woman who isn't afraid of him.
Disclaimer: AU where Christine does not exist. Y/N is somewhat in her place, but certainly handling things differently than her. Written with Ramin Karimloo (25th Anniversary) in mind as the Phantom. Also, I am taking the liberty to slightly change certain aspects (e.g. Eriks mask and deformity are more inspired by Ramin in Love Never Dies (Westend, 2010)). Also, updates may take a while as I take ages until I’m satisfied with my writing. Chapters are not proofread properly, and English is not my first language, soooo there might be errors occasionally.
Tags: the slowest burn I can manage, lots of angst, fluff, certainly nsfw at some point
TW: stalking (a lot of it), voyeurism, violence, mentions of abuse, death, murder, trauma, flashbacks, attempted assault, gaslighting, probably maybe more??? idk
to my dismay an old obsession of mine with a certain pwoper space rock band is sort of keeping me occupied recently, which (in combination with a lot of bureaucracy I have to take care of for my job atm) is not helping my writing progress on this angel in hell. 🥺 I have not forgotten our angel about it, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask for quite a lot of patience for the chapters to come. Apologies, once again.
And thank you for all the lovely comments thus far. Might at least rework what I’ve already got for ch 21 soon so I can at least finally post that 😤
not a request but I just wanted to let you know that your poto series is so amazing I love it so so so much you’re a wonderful writer and I can’t wait for next update!! :)))
ohhhh my god thank you so much. I'm very, very happy to read that, especially since I've been struggling more with writing recently. So yeah, I'm really, really glad that you like it, and very much grateful that you even took the time to write this! xx
𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖑, pt. 20
phantom of the opera x reader
AN: Im sorryyyyy this took so long again. In my defense, it is a) a longer chapter again and b) there's just a lot of work and real life stuff atm (including a crazy heatwave which doesn't happen often in my area). Also, c) I honestly had a bit of a writers block but I am certainly not abandoning the story. I still have wayyyy too many ideas I want to incorporate.
Sooo thank you very much for your patience. Again, I was too lazy to look for a GIF because I just wanted to post this as soon as I finished it. I do once again hope you enjoy!
Word Count: around 8000
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜
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20 - 𝕱𝖔𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕷𝖎𝖛𝖎𝖓𝖌
For several moments after the mirror settles into place, you remain exactly where you are. One hand rests against the gilded frame, while your reflection looks back at you from the silvered glass.
To anyone else, the mirror is just a mirror. You know better. You cannot hear him, nor make out the smallest shift of movement, yet his presence remains unmistakable. It lingers beneath your skin like the final vibration of his organ, long after the instrument has fallen quiet. He remains in the darkness because leaving you is difficult, and you remain before the glass because stepping away feels much the same. Especially after the most recent developments between the two of you.
A distant crash breaks the spell. Somewhere beyond the locked door to your room, someone shouts for a stagehand. Another voice answers from farther down the corridor, followed by the clatter of something metallic. You let out a reluctant breath and lower your hand from the frame. “I suppose that is my cue.”, you whisper, more to yourself than him.
You move away from the mirror, set his rose safely to the side. You have to freshen up. Before the edge of the screen you halt, looking back towards the mirror right where his eyes should be. A spark of mischief passes through you as your fingers find the sash of the peignoir, loosening it slowly, very slowly. The garment shifts around your form slightly, yet before it slips from your shoulders you step behind the screen. Just a moment later, the ivory silk is tossed away and lands across the back of a nearby chair, entirely visible from the mirror while you remain safely concealed.
Behind the silvered glass, Erik goes perfectly still. The screen shields you from view completely; a boundary he would never dare to cross. Yet the absence of sight does little to quiet his awareness. If anything, every small sound seems magnified: the gentle drip of water from the brass tap in the bathing alcove, the whisper of fabric leaving your skin, the slight splash as you test the temperature with your hand.
He knows precisely what each sound means.
For one disastrous moment, his mind supplies what his eyes cannot. The peignoir lies abandoned within his view, while only a tiny distance away you must be stepping into the bath. On one hand, his fingers begin twitching violently, and the other he presses against the cold stone of the passage.
You had looked directly toward him before disappearing behind the screen. You knew he was there. The realization sends a pulse of warmth through him that is immediately followed by shame. Not because you have done anything wrong, nor because this… glimpse of playful intimacy is unwelcome. Quite the opposite. It is welcome enough to make staying here feel utterly improper.
Erik closes his eyes. He has already been granted more trust than he ever believed another person could offer him. He will not repay it by lingering because some selfish, starving part of him aches to do so.
On the other side of the mirror, you lower yourself into the water, a smile on your face as the warmth engulfs you. That, and the battle that must have taken place behind the silvered surface. Perhaps it is cruel to test the restraint of a man who has not slept and whose composure you have already carefully dismantled several times. Then again, you had asked him to rest. If he had chosen to remain instead, the consequences could hardly be placed entirely at your feet.
As the minutes pass, the heat of the bath gradually removes the last remnants of sleep from your body. You sink deeper into the water, allowing it to soothe the slight ache in your muscles and wash away the dust of the passages beneath the Opera House. The faint scent of cedar and sandalwood that had clung to your skin begins to fade.
For a little while, you stay like this. Your mind wanders back to him. To his home. To the gentle care with which he treats you. To being a guest in the home that had been built for eternal solitude.
When the water begins to cool, you step from the bath and dry yourself before slipping into a robe. By the time you emerge from the alcove, the familiar presence behind the mirror has vanished.
You begin to dress with considerably more restraint than you might ordinarily have chosen, selecting a dark blue gown with simple lines and little ornamentation. The Opera House is in mourning, officially or otherwise.
Once the final fastening is secured, you cross your room toward the vanity and find the crimson rose Erik gave you, still resting right where you placed it. You lift it carefully, turning the smooth, thornless stem between your fingers. Subtlety may have abandoned the two of you to some degree. Still, there is a difference between refusing to be ashamed and carelessly handing your secrets to anyone who dares to look closely enough. The morning after the murder of Joseph Buquet, you have no desire to give the company further reason to connect you to the man whose name is already being whispered through the corridors with renewed fear.
Reluctantly, you place the rose in a slender vase rather than fastening it to your gown. Leaving it behind feels weird, different, but strangely intimate in its own right. It remains within your room, visible only to you and those you choose to admit.
When you finally sit before the vanity and begin arranging your hair, you pause at the sight of your own reflection.
You look rested. Not merely presentable, but thoroughly, almost offensively rested. There are no shadows beneath your eyes, no pallor or any other visible trace of the terror of the previous evening. Your gaze is clear, your skin warmed from the bath, and despite your best efforts, contentment keeps threatening to soften the corners of your mouth.
A man died before you last night. And now you look as though you have enjoyed the finest night’s sleep of your life. Which, inconveniently, is precisely what happened. The first knock comes before you have time to decide how to disguise any of it. It is followed almost immediately by a second, more impatient series.
“Y/N?”, you hear Meg ask. You close your eyes briefly, your hands still hovering near your hair. Of course. “Are you awake?”, she calls, concern sharpening her voice. After a pause far too short for an answer, the handle shifts beneath her hand. “I am coming in.”
“Meg, the door is-” The bolt slides back just as you rise from the vanity. Apparently, Meg had acquired the spare key from her mother, most likely through means you would rather not examine too closely. The door opens, and she slips inside before quickly closing it behind her.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Meg’s blue eyes sweep over you from head to toe. They take in your carefully arranged hair, the dark blue gown and the complete absence of exhaustion. Relief softens her features as she confirms that you are neither injured nor visibly distressed.
Then, her eyes land on the crimson rose behind you. Her expression changes, her eyes narrowing. “You look well.”, she says slowly. For a short moment, you just look at her. “Thank you.”, you finally say.
“That was not entirely a compliment.”, she replies swiftly. You sigh inaudibly and turn back toward the mirror, reaching for the final hairpin. “Unfortunate.”, you mumble, tucking it into place.
“Y/N.”, Meg moves closer, lowering her voice as though the room itself might be listening. Considering the room in question, the precaution is not entirely unreasonable. “You look more than alright.”, she says, her voice thinning. “That is what is so unnerving.”
A small breath of amusement escapes you as you look at her through the mirror. “Would it be more comforting if I looked terrible?”, you inquire. “Yes.”, Meg says immediately, then presses her lips together, realizing how unkind that sounds. “I mean…” She gestures helplessly at you, at the rose, at the whole picture of this morning. “A man died before you last night. And I don’t think I’ve never seen you look so… content.” The tenderness of the moment falters, tempered by the reality neither of you can escape: Joseph Buquet is dead, and the Opera House is drowning in rumors and fear.
The bond that exists between you and Erik does not erase that truth.
You lower your head, turning on the vanity stool to face her properly. Your thoughts wander back to the previous night, and despite the fact that you know it is entirely inappropriate, a small smile begins to form on your lips. Meg notices, and her eyes widen.
“You saw him.”, she says quietly. You avoid her eyes, smoothing one hand over the dark fabric of your gown. “Yes.”
“After Joseph. After the police. After everything.” Her voice drops even further, and her eyes flick briefly toward the mirror before returning to you. She swallows hard. Your expression softens. Her tone is not accusing, it is frightened. The concern of a friend who has known you for almost a decade and has just discovered that your heart belongs to what might be the most dangerous man in Paris.
You rise from the vanity and cross the small distance between you. Meg’s gaze moves over you again, more carefully this time. She looks for bruises, for some hidden indication that your calm is a mere performance. “I am alright.”, you say first, because you can see that she needs to hear it.
“I know…”, she says, lifting a hand before you can continue. “I know you would not be standing here looking like this if he…” She trails off, shaking her head.
“It is difficult… not to worry.”, she concludes. You nod slowly, and despite the seriousness of the conversation, a small warmth stirs in your chest. There is something undeniably sweet about the way she worries, and deals with it all despite the gravity and complexity of the situation. “I understand that.”, you whisper.
Meg studies you for a moment. Her eyes drift back to the rose, then to your face again. “You understand that it is difficult not to worry, or you understand why I am worried about him specifically?”, she asks.
“Both.”, you say after a moment. Meg’s expression softens, though her eyes remain serious. “Good.”
“Murder…“, the word feels strange on your tongue, „…is not something to be excused, and I am not pretending otherwise.“ You let out a slow breath. „But I am also not going to act as if Joseph Buquet was harmless simply because he is dead now.” Meg’s gaze flickers.
“You know how he behaved.”, you say, your voice quieter now. “You saw the way he drank, the things he said, how he frightened the girls and spied on us in the dressing room. And you know that all of that did not happen seldomly.” You fall silent for a moment, and Meg listens without interrupting.
"He approached me a few days ago when I was alone on stage.", you say quietly. "Made suggestive comments, came close to me and grabbed my arm."
“He what?” Her expression tightens with a mixture of anger and sympathy. “Y/N...” The word comes out softer than before. “Why did you not tell me?” You glance at your hands, then up to her. “I handled it.”, you simply say. “Of course you did.” Meg shakes her head, resigned.
“It was either me handling it or Erik.”, you admit softly. “He was there. He saw." Meg goes very still, this piece of the puzzle clicking into place. “He saw how Joseph approached you?”, she asks. You nod. “Erik knows most of what happens in this house.”, you reply then.
You see her eyes flick to the mirror briefly, a silent question in her expression. You shake your head lightly, only then she continues. “And then last night…” Meg looks away, her lips parting slightly as she exhales. Her eyes move toward the mirror again, as understanding slowly settles over her. She is beginning to grasp how devotion, without restraint, can become something terrifying.
“He killed him because of you. For you.”, Meg says quietly, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and concern. You avoid her gaze. What she says is not wrong. But phrased like this it does not feel right either.
None of Erik’s actions can be folded so neatly into one simple sentence. He killed because of fear and rage, because Joseph had mocked him for years, because he had threatened those who could not easily defend themselves, and finally, because Erik’s understanding of protection has been shaped by the life he lived.
“In part.”, you say carefully. Meg’s eyes return to yours. “I know Joseph was vile. I know he had some morbid fun frightening us, and I know half the company looked away because it was easier. I am not mourning him as some poor innocent man. But Y/N…” Her voice cracks slightly around your name. “If a man kills for you, even if he tells himself and you it is protection, that is not a small thing.”
“I know it is not.”, you say defensively.
“Do you?”, she counters, searching your face. “Then why are you not afraid?” Her tone turns desperate as the question leaves her lips.
You breathe out slowly, your eyes drifting once more to the rose. “Because he has never given me reason to be afraid of him.”, you say simply.
Meg's expression shifts. “You cannot mean that.”, she breathes. “He has done terrible things. He just killed a man.”
“I know.”, you say quietly. "I am not blind to what he has done, Meg. Or to how... unconventional his ways are.” You pause. “But none of that changes how he treats me.”
Meg says nothing.
„He is gentle with me.”, you continue softly. “More gentle than anyone has ever been. He weighs every word before he speaks it, afraid of frightening me away.” You shake your head lightly, fingers moving to find the petals of the rose. “When he thinks he’s done something even remotely wrong by me, it troubles him far more than it troubles me.”
You think of his trembling hands. Of every moment he had looked at you as though your happiness mattered more than his own. And suddenly, with a clarity that almost steals your breath, you realise how much he must love you. He has never said the words. Not once. Yet the truth has been there all along, woven through every note he wrote for you and every reverent touch.
“I am not excusing all he does because I care for him.”, you whisper, while Meg watches you closely. “But I trust him. I trust that despite it all, he is a good man.”, you conclude. Meg is silent for a long moment. “You really do…“, she pauses for a second, pondering her words before continuing, „…feel safe with him.”, Meg says quietly.
“I do.”, you reply, after a moment. Meg’s mouth tightens, but there is relief beneath her worry. “Good.”, she whispers at last. “Because I do not know how to fight an Opera Ghost, and I would rather not have to learn.” A small laugh escapes you. “I would not recommend it.”, you reply, a bit of amusement evident in your tone.
“No, I imagine not.”, she says, then adds with a crooked smile, “Though I suppose Joseph Buquet would recommend it even less.” Your mouth falls open, an incredulous laugh bubbling up before you can stop it. “You know...”, you say, shaking your head, “I think you and Erik would get along surprisingly well.” Meg narrows her eyes, looking at you as if she cannot decide whether she ought to be flattered or offended.
For a moment, the absurdity of it all hangs between you, and then it fades as quickly as it came. Meg’s expression softens, the teasing giving way to something more sober. She looks down at her hands. “Is it true that the inspector interrogated you?”, Meg asks. You nod. “What did you say?”
“I told them what I know.”, you say. “Some of it. That Joseph had been drinking. That he often told stories of the Opera Ghost. That he was in the rafters, with a rope…”
Meg listens carefully, comprehension etching itself across her features. “You made it sound like an accident.”, Meg says, her voice low and incredulous. “I presented some facts, and Mercier came to the most reasonable conclusion.”, you reply evenly, though a sharp huff escapes you. Meg presses her lips together. “So the inspector believed you?” she asks, her tone hushed and uneasy.
“Yes.”
For a moment, Meg only stares at you. Then she lets out a shaky breath; something between unease and awe. “You are rather terrible sometimes.”, Meg says with a faint smile on her lips. “…Thank you.”, you choose to reply.
“Again, not a compliment.”, she counters, narrowing her eyes, though the corners of her mouth twitch as if she is fighting back a laugh. You arch a brow, smirking.
Meg looks at you, then the mirror once more. Her gaze travels down, and she takes a breath. “Did he make you do this?”, she asks quietly. You do not like the question, but you understand why she needs to ask it. “He did not ask me to lie.”, you say. “In fact, I think he would not have wanted me to, had I asked first.” Meg studies you, understanding the meaning of your words. Understanding that apparently, even with him, you remain your own, stubborn self. She gives a small, resigned nod.
“What happened after?” she asks quietly. Her gaze flicks toward the rose again.
The warmth of the memory rises through you, a blush rising to your face. You ponder your next words, searching for a reply that does not expose too much. So you choose something true and simple: “It was sweet.”, you say softly, earning an incredulous look from her. “You are telling me the man who may or may not have hung and dropped Joseph Buquet onto the stage… was sweet?”
“Yes.”, you mumble, thinking of the way your confession moved him, and the way he spent the night weaving it into a melody.
“He made breakfast.”, you add after a moment.
Meg’s eyes widen.
“You stayed the night.”, she hushes. A flush rushes up into her cheeks, as she wonders what exactly staying the night might entail. Your eyes go wide, and the answer leaps to your tongue before you can stop it. “No-”, you blurt, then catch yourself and shake your head lightly. “Well, yes. But not like that. I stayed the night, but only because I fell asleep. Nothing happened.” Meg looks toward the mirror, then back at you, then toward the rose, as though all three together may help her understand it all better.
Meg is silent for a long moment. You see her expression shift. The absurdity of it all remains, but there is something warm beneath it all. “The Phantom of the Opera made you breakfast.“, she concludes finally, sounding as though she still cannot quite believe the words coming out of her own mouth.
A helpless laugh escapes you. “Yes.”, you nod finally, your own expression softening. “He was nervous. And trying very hard to make it right, and proper.” Meg is quiet, so you continue, because perhaps this is the part you need her to understand most. “He is dangerous. I know that. But he is also…”, you swallow. “…capable of such tenderness. Of caring more deeply than most others would.”
Meg’s eyes drift to the rose. For a long moment, she simply breathes. She takes your hand, her fingers squeezing yours. Then she nods. “Alright.”, she says, though the word clearly costs her effort. “I believe you.”
Relief softens your features. “I am still worried.”, she adds immediately after your expressions changes. “And I reserve the right to be extremely upset if he hurts you.”
“Certainly.”, you reply softly.
After another moment she sighs, long and theatrical, though her eyes remain bright. “You could not have fallen in love with someone simple?”, she asks finally, an amused twinkle in her eye. The question makes you think back to the horribly plain breakfast you shared with the Vicomte. And apparently, it shows. At your expression, Meg lets out a sound that is half laugh, half groan. “Of course.”, she whispers at last. “Of course you would fall in love with the one man in Paris who lives in the walls and serves you breakfast after committing murder.”
Both of you begin to laugh. And for a few seconds, the day feels almost normal.
Until a firm knock sounds at the door. The laughter dies. Megs eyes widen. She turns toward the sound as though she has been caught with stolen goods just before it opens.
Madame Giry steps inside, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. Her black dress is severe, as always, her posture straight, and her hands are resting on the handle of her cane. She takes in the room in one sweep. Meg standing close to you, your carefully arranged hair, the dark blue gown, the mirror. And finally, the crimson rose standing in the slender vase on your vanity. Her gaze lingers there for half a second. Then it returns to your face.
“You appear well.”, she says. You hold Madame Giry’s gaze. “I am.”, you curtly reply. A small nod. “Good.“ In that single word, there is a kind of relief folded so neatly into her composure that others might have missed it. Meg looks between the two of you, clearly startled by the quiet understanding passing between her mother and you.
For a moment, the three of you simply stand there, brought together by the different things each of you knows. Meg knows enough to worry. Madame Giry knows enough not to ask. And you know enough to understand that her restraint is not ignorance, but mercy.
“The managers have asked for you.”, Madame Giry says. “They wish to address the company before noon. Rehearsals will not resume until the afternoon, and even then only in sections. The main stage remains under inspection.” Her eyes sharpen slightly. “Three chorus members have claimed sudden illnesses, and several members of the orchestra have discovered urgent family obligations.”
Meg opens her mouth, perhaps to ask something else, but Madame Giry turns to her daughter before she can form the words. “Meg, go join the others.”
Meg blinks. “But-”
“You will eat something, if you have not done so already, and you will join the others.“, Madame Giry repeats, not louder, but with a precision that makes argument feel ill-advised. Still, Meg looks distinctly offended by the inclusion of breakfast among her orders. “I am not a child.”, Meg protests.
“No.” Madame Giry’s gaze remains steady. “Which is why I expect you to behave with discretion.” That quiets Meg more effectively than any sharper reprimand could have. Meg’s eyes flick toward you, concern still written plainly across her features. Then she straightens, and moves toward the door, slipping into the corridor.
Wordlessly, Madame Giry turns towards the door, too. You follow her silent command. The moment you step outside, the air changes.
Stagehands stand in small clusters near the walls, their caps twisted between their hands. Murmurs fall silent as you pass. A pair of chorus girls near the stairwell stop speaking so abruptly that the silence feels louder than their whispers had been. You keep your chin level.
Madame Giry walks beside you, her cane striking the floor in a measured rhythm. There is no hurry in her stride, there never is. Still, people move from her path all the same. She cuts through the unsettled corridors with the authority of a woman who has no need to raise her voice because everyone already knows better than to ignore it.
As you turn past the rehearsal hall, two stagehands fall abruptly silent. You catch only the last fragment of their conversation. “...they say Mercier did not even take anyone away.”
“Because it was him.”, the other whispers. “Who would they arrest? A ghost?”
When you near the managers’ office, the tension in the air grows more concentrated. Voices carry through the closed door, one anxious and rapid, the other lower, attempting reassurance with little success.
“-cannot simply cancel everything indefinitely, Firmin, do you understand what that would suggest?”
“I understand very well what a corpse falling onto the stage suggests, André.”
Madame Giry knocks. The argument inside stops.
A moment later the door opens, revealing Monsieur Firmin with his hair slightly disordered and his face drawn in a way that makes him look older. Behind him, Monsieur André stands near the desk, one hand braced against a stack of papers.
Both men turn toward you. “Mademoiselle, Madame Giry.” Firmin steps aside at once, his eyes moving over your face with genuine concern. “Thank God. You are well?”
“I am.”, you say. “Please, sit.” Firmin gestures toward the chair across from the desk. “You have endured a most terrible shock.” You lower yourself into the offered chair, folding your hands neatly in your lap. Madame Giry remains standing near the door. You notice, with some interest, that neither manager asks her to leave.
“We wished to speak with you before addressing the company.” André begins, seating himself behind the desk, though his posture remains tense. “First, we wanted to know how you are faring after last night. Truly.” He moves one hand over the papers on the desk, aligning their edges with unnecessary care. “Inspector Mercier seemed satisfied with the account he received.”
André leans forward slightly. “He has not closed the matter entirely, of course. A man died in public, and there are formalities. But your statement appears to have helped him understand the situation in a… less sensational light. Your composure last night did much to prevent a far greater panic.”
You study them for a moment, gaze switching between the two men. They are grateful that your version of events allowed the police to leave without tearing apart the walls. Grateful that Joseph Buquet’s death might be sorted into the folder of accident, tragedy and theatrical misfortune, rather than murder.
Madame Giry is silent behind you. You can feel her watching. “I told the inspector what I saw.”, you say at last. Firmin nods too quickly. “Yes. Naturally.”, André says, his gaze resting on you with more understanding than you expected. He knows there is more beneath the sentence. Perhaps not the whole of it, but enough to realize that your calm was not naivety.
“Joseph Buquet was not… well liked.”, André says carefully. “No.”, you reply evenly. “He was not.” Firmin shifts. “Whatever his faults, the public will require a gesture of respect.”
Firmin appears grateful to be moving into the realm of plans. “Tomorrow evening, if the authorities raise no objection, we intend to reopen.”
You had expected it. Still, hearing it stated so plainly makes something cold settle in your stomach. André must see it inn your face. “The longer we remain closed, the more the story grows beyond our control.”
“And the more money you lose.”, you add. Firmin’s mouth opens. André answers before he can. “Yes.” André replies, quietly. His honesty surprises you. “That is part of it. We employ hundreds of people, Mademoiselle. Musicians, dancers, carpenters, seamstresses, cleaners. If the Opera closes for weeks because Paris decides the building is cursed, the people who suffer first will not be Monsieur Firmin or myself.” Firmin seems even more relieved than before, now that André has found a respectable way to make the argument.
“And what, precisely, will tomorrow be?”, you ask. Firmin straightens. “A memorial performance.” The temperature in the room seems to drop. Erik is here, somewhere. You look at the managers, dumbfounded. “In Joseph’s honor?”, you find yourself asking the obvious.
“A gesture of respect.”, Firmin says, though his voice has become more cautious now. “A brief dedication before the curtain. Perhaps a note in the programme. We are closing the theatre tonight as a mark of mourning, which, of course, is only proper. Tomorrow, however, the company must demonstrate that it will not be broken by tragedy.”
“And what will be performed?”, you ask next. André and Firmin exchange a glance. “There is disagreement.”, Firmin says.
“Then agree.”, Madame Giry’s voice cuts through the room. Both men turn toward her. “Mademoiselle has asked a simple question.” Firmin clears his throat. “We had considered resuming Il Muto.”
“No.”
The word leaves you before you can even consider rephrasing it.
“Mademoiselle-”, Firmin starts. “No.”, you repeat, quieter this time but no less firm. “A man died during that performance. Half the company is already terrified, and you want to place them back into the very same piece, into the very same scenery, less than two days later?”
André looks as though he has been hoping for you to say precisely that. Firmin presses his lips together. You feel Madame Giry’s gaze on you. Approval, perhaps. Or simply recognition.
Firmin looks toward André, clearly hoping for support and finding none. “What would you suggest, then?”, he asks.
“Not a comedy.”, you say plainly. “Not tomorrow. If this is to be a memorial performance, then let it feel like one. A concert programme, perhaps. Selections the orchestra can prepare quickly. Something solemn enough to appear respectful, but beautiful enough that the audience will leave moved rather than thrilled by the scandal.”
André leans back slightly, considering. “A concert programme lacks spectacle.”, Firmin mutters, frowning. “Joseph Buquet fell from the rafters and died last night.”, you say, the edge in your voice sharpening despite your effort to restrain it. “I believe the audience has had spectacle enough.”
André lowers his gaze, but not before you catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Firmin looks as though he cannot decide whether to be offended or impressed.
“Mademoiselle makes a sensible point.”, Madame Giry says, her expression severe.
“A memorial concert.”, André says slowly. “That may appear more dignified than attempting to resume the opera immediately.”
“And less expensive than to mount a new set.”, Firmin says before catching André’s look.
André folds his hands over the desk. “We could include several solo pieces. Something from the orchestra. A chorus selection. Perhaps…” His gaze turns to you with careful hesitation. “Perhaps you would sing.”
You knew this was coming.
“Only if you feel able, of course.“, Firmin steps in at once, clearly hoping that you would not decline even if you did feel unable. „Your appearance would reassure the company, and the public. You were present last night. To witness you continuing with such admirable courage after…” He falters.
You sit very still, aware of how Erik had expected exactly this. That the public would come precisely because death had touched the stage.
A memorial performance. A gesture of respect for a disrespectful man.
No.
“I will not sing for Joseph Buquet as though he were a beloved friend of the company.”, you say. “Too many of the women in this building would know it for a lie.”
Both managers fall silent. They know better than to argue. “If I sing…“, you continue, „It will be for the living. For the people who continue working in a place that no longer feels safe to them. Not for the sake of polishing a dead man’s reputation.”
André looks at you for a long moment. Then he nods. “That would be acceptable.” Firmin opens his mouth, likely to argue the finer points of public sentiment, then appears to reconsider under the combined weight of your and Madame Giry’s stare.
“Yes.”, he says at last. “That. As well as your presence at the reception afterward.”
Your brows lift. “A small gathering only.”, André says immediately. “Patrons, principal donors, members of the press kept at a respectful distance.“ You draw a slow breath. “Very well.”, you mumble.
The terms are clear. For now.
Then André rises. “We should gather everyone. Address the company.”, he says. Firmin nods in reply. As he does, you find yourself quite certain they have already begun imagining how all of it will be printed in the papers. Madame Giry turns toward the door. “I will send word.”
André nods curtly, reaching for a stack of notes. Then pauses and looks toward you again, his expression shifting into something that almost resembles genuine feeling. “Mademoiselle.”, he says. “For what it is worth… your composure last night may have spared this house a great deal.”
You hold his gaze. “I am aware.”, you answer softly, and dip your head respectfully before leaving.
The rehearsal hall is nearly full by the time you arrive. The room is restless, full of whispers and the peculiar tension of people gathered after a horror they could not yet comprehend. Dancers stand close together, shoulders nearly touching. Members of the chorus cluster near the windows. Several stagehands remain near the back wall, their eyes glued to the floor.
Raoul stands near one of the side doors. His eyes find you immediately. Relief appears first, so plain and honest that some small part of you softens at it. Then his gaze sharpens, taking in your composed face, your steady posture, the absence of visible distress. You look away.
The company address itself is mercifully brief. André speaks first and does so better than you expected. He acknowledges the fear in the room, confirms that the Opera will remain closed to the public tonight, and assures the company that no one will be asked to return to the main stage until further inspections are complete. Firmin follows with less grace and considerably more emphasis on unity, resilience, and the importance of not surrendering the Opera House to rumor.
No one mentions murder. No one mentions the Opera Ghost. Everyone thinks of both.
When the memorial concert is announced, a murmur moves through the room. When André says that you have agreed to perform, every eye turns toward you. You did not intend to make any sort of statement, yet you step forward. Speaking for yourself seems the wiser option than allowing Firmin to explain your participation.
“I will sing tomorrow.”, you say, your voice carrying clearly through the hall. “Not to honor Joseph Buquet.” You let your gaze move through the room, pausing briefly on the dancers, the chorus, the stagehands near the back. “Many of us knew him differently. Some of you may mourn him. Some may feel very little grief at all. Some may feel relief and then guilt for feeling it.”
Stillness settles over the room. You can sense Firmin tense beside you, horrified by your refusal to turn the dead man noble. André, however, remains silent.
“I do not think it helpful to demand the same feeling from all of us.“, you continue. „But I do know that last night frightened people. The very same people who are now expected to keep the Opera House alive.”
For a moment, no one speaks. Meg’s eyes hold yours from across the room. Madame Giry’s face remains composed, her hands resting on her cane.
Somewhere above you, he is listening, too. He had told himself he would not follow. That he would return below, rest as he told you he would, and allow you to move through the world above without the weight of his shadow.
Naturally, he had failed. He watches you stand before them all, refusing to gild ugliness merely because of death. You are merciful without being false, gentle without being weak. God help him, he loves you so violently that he fears the shadows aren’t enough to contain it.
“For Joseph Buquet…” you finish, choosing the words carefully, “there shall be respect. For the rest of us, there shall be courage.”
An older chorus woman lowers her head. A violinist near the windows nods. Someone near the back murmurs agreement, and the sound moves gently through the gathered company.
André looks relieved. “Thank you, Mademoiselle.”, he says softly. You step back.
The practical details that follow pass with less weight. Sectional rehearsals in the afternoon. No work on the main stage. The theatre remains closed tonight. Notices sent to patrons. Black ribbons as a sign of mourning. A programme to be assembled before the evening.
You are turning toward the corridor when Raoul steps into your path. He does so not too abruptly, but he stands just close enough that passing him without acknowledgement would be rude..
“Mademoiselle Y/N.”, Raoul greets you.
“Vicomte de Chagny.”, you return. The formality of your response changes something in his expression, but he accepts it. His face is pale with lack of sleep, his eyes shadowed. You cannot deny that his concern is real.
Erik had seen Raoul approach you, and every softer thing in him had sharpened. He watches from the darkness, despising how close the Vicomte stands to you, how he looks at you, how he speaks your name with as much softness.
“May I speak with you?”, he inquires politely. You nod, and the two of you move toward the quieter edge of the hall, near a row of unused chairs. He waits until the nearest chorus members have drifted away before speaking.
“You look well.”, he says, his tone softer than you would have anticipated.
“You are not the first person to tell me so this morning.”, you reply in an even voice. His expression softens briefly. “I am glad of it.” He hesitates, eyes searching your face. “After last night, I feared…”
He does not finish. The sincerity in his voice keeps you from answering too sharply. “I know.”, you simply reply, quieter now.
Erik despises the honesty of the concern in his voice. False concern could be dismissed, mocked, crushed beneath contempt. But the boy means it, and now you are kind to him because of that.
Raoul seems almost relieved by your calm and gentle demeanor, then his gaze shifts toward the shadows in the high corners of the room. When he looks back at you, something more troubled has settled in his face.
“You were very composed with the inspector.”, he says then. Your brows draw together. “My composure worries you?”
“The reason for it does.”, he replies quickly, his voice low and careful. “You knew exactly what to say. You gave Mercier a path to follow, and he followed it.”
You study him. “A rather generous assessment of my influence over a police inspector.”
“You are avoiding the point.”
“And you are approaching one you are too afraid to even speak aloud.”
For a moment, the two of you simply look at one another, the noise of the dispersing company moving around you like water around stone. Raoul lowers his voice further. “You protected him.”
You take a slow breath. „You should be cautious with such accusations, Vicomte.”
“And you should be cautious with him.” His words come quickly, intensely, though his voice remains low. He seems to realize it at once, regret flickering across his features.
“I do not say that to offend you.”, he adds. “I say it because I am afraid for you.”
“I am aware.”, you state matter-of-factly.
“Are you?” His eyes search yours. “Because every time I attempt to warn you, you look at me as though I am insulting your judgment.”
“Because you are.”
Raoul falls silent. You hold his gaze. “Understanding your concern does not mean accepting your conclusions.”
His mouth tightens. “And if my conclusions are right?”
“Then I will have to face the consequences.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It is not meant to be” Your voice softens slightly, though the firmness beneath it remains. For a moment, you both simply look at one another. You can see the boy he must once have been beneath the polished manners and aristocratic certainty. A boy who, perhaps, just wanted to do good, to save things.
“I am not your enemy.”, he says softly.
“No.”, you reply, your tone calm and sincere. “I know you are trying to help. But every warning you give me seems to stem from the assumption that I have not thought, not seen, not understood enough.”
He pauses, his expression shifting into wounded one. “That is not what I think of you, Y/N.”, he says sincerely. “It is how you speak to me.”, you answer calmly. His eyes travel over your face, for a second you see his hand twitch, as if he wants to grab yours. He stops himself. „I am very well aware you are a perceptive, capable, and beyond intelligent woman.“ Raoul looks away, jaw tense.
Above, Erik’s jaw tightens until pain blooms beneath the mask. The compliment is neither possessive, nor false. That is precisely what makes it intolerable. Raoul de Chagny speaks of your mind with open admiration, and Erik hates him for having chosen words you deserve. For a vicious second, Erik wants to answer for you. To descend from the shadows like a nightmare given form and remind the Vicomte that you are not his to guard, not his to question, not his to place behind the gilded bars of his concern.
Raouls eyes find yours again. “I never meant to make you feel small. I only want you safe.”, he says.
The words settle between you, gentler than the ones before. You can feel the truth in them, which is what makes this harder. Raoul is not cruel. He is trying, in the only way he seems to understand, to place himself between you and the danger. The trouble is that he has never asked whether you want him there.
“I believe you.”, you say softly. Raoul exhales, and for a moment relief touches his features. “But wanting me safe does not give you the right to decide what safety should look like for me.”, you continue. The relief vanishes again, though he does not look angry. Only tired, and a little bit hurt. You see the part of him that is not title, not wealth, not all that polished certainty that comes from having the world arrange itself around him. You see a man who is frightened for someone he cares about. Someone who does not know how to make peace with being unable to save her from choices she refuses to regret.
Above you, hidden behind carved plaster and shadow, Erik does not move. Raoul’s gaze moves to the upper corners of the room. “You are his pupil.”, he says quietly. It is not quite a question. The whole Opera House had heard his claim. He had called you his protégée before an audience, before the managers, before the Vicomte.
You simply nod. Raoul’s eyes return to yours. “May I ask one thing?”
“You may ask.”, comes your reply. “That is not the same as promising an answer.”, he points out.
“No.”, you say. “It is not.”
“Does you feel indebted to him?”, he finally asks.
„Grateful.“, you simply say, „Not indebted.“
Raoul watches you closely. “And if he believes otherwise?”, he inquires.
“Then he would be free to do so.“, you say first, a signal that even if he did, you have no reason to fear him. „…But he does not.”
The certainty in your voice is dangerous, perhaps. Too revealing, if Raoul knows how to listen. And he does, you see it in his eyes.
“Then you know him well enough to say so.”, he states. This is precisely where denial would sound like cowardice and confession would be foolish. You ponder your next words. “I know him well enough to be certain that he is not the stories people tell about him.”, you say.
For one brief, suspended second, you feel certain that the shadows are holding their breath.
Raoul looks at you as though something has settled into place, a truth he can no longer dismiss. His voice is softer when he speaks again. “You care for him.”
You hold his gaze. “I do.”, you say plainly. A faint, sad smile touches Raoul’s mouth as he looks away. For a moment, he seems to gather himself, pulling the wounded part of him back beneath manners, title, and whatever remains of his composure. “When I first understood that he was teaching you, I thought he had frightened you, or convinced you some other way that you needed him.” You listen without interrupting. “But I am beginning to understand that you are not confused.”
Raoul’s gaze moves over your face, and this time, there is no accusation in it. Still, he looks almost pained. “That may frighten me more. But...“, he bows his head slightly. “I shall try not to behave as though you require rescuing from yourself.”
„That would be appreciated.“, the corner of your mouth rises up, and a flicker of reluctant amusement touches his eyes. Raoul gives a faint, tired smile.
Above, Erik watches. He hates the ease of that smile. He despises that the Vicomte can stand in the light with you and be answered gently, even after questioning what he had no right to question. And what he loathes, most of all, is that some part of him understands why.
Raoul is not cruel. He is not leering, not vulgar, not a fool with a rope and a bottle. He is young, privileged and painfully earnest. Erik can despise him for many things. But not for caring whether you are safe. The realization is unpleasant enough that his mouth twists beneath the mask.
“I should return to the managers.”, you say after a moment. Raoul thinks back to the letter he received. “And I should likely stop interrogating you in corners.”
“Another appreciated development.”, you smirk. He accepts the remark with a faint bow, one hand settling briefly over his heart. “Until later, Mademoiselle.”
“Vicomte.” The formality returns, but it no longer cuts quite as sharply. You leave him standing near the edge of the rehearsal hall.
Above, Eriks body is rigid with tension. He has listened to the Vicomte question you, warn you, compliment and genuinely care for you. His heart had not yet decided whether to rage or break, but then you refused him, again, gently and without apology. You admitted just enough, and denied nothing.
Raoul turns and looks, very briefly, toward the shadows above. The Vicomte sees nothing. After a moment, Raoul lowers his gaze and walks away. Only then does Erik permit himself to breathe.
You, meanwhile, step into the corridor and allow the door of the rehearsal hall to fall shut behind you. The company’s murmurs are muffled now, and for the first time since leaving your room, you are briefly, blissfully alone.
Your steps carry you along the corridor leading past the side entrance to the stage. The side doors to the stage stand partly open, guarded by two nervous-looking stagehands who straighten when they see you.
Beyond them, the stage lies strangely bare. Only a handful of men with ropes and measuring tools moving cautiously beneath the fly gallery, speaking in low voices.
You pause. The place where he fell has already been cleaned.
You turn away before either stagehand can ask whether you are well.
Then, from somewhere above, you hear a violin.
The melody is soft, delicate and aching. You still. It is not Erik’s music.
Erik’s music is cathedral and storm, longing carved into stone, pain made vast enough to become architecture. This is something smaller. A melody of melancholic simplicity that steals the breath from your throat.
Your curiosity stirs.
The managers will want you soon enough. Madame Giry will undoubtedly find you if she decides you have been absent too long. The afternoon rehearsals have not yet begun, and for a narrow slice of time, the Opera House seems to have forgotten to claim you.
𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖑, pt. 19
phantom of the opera x reader
AN: Behold; domestic Erik. I apologize for the long wait, I had a lot to do these past days/weeks aaaand frankly also took a while to nuance this chapter just right. I feel like a lot of fanfictions have Erik become too secure too soon once some sort of relationship is eastablished, and for the particular Opera Ghost I have in mind, that just wouldn’t fit. Soooo this took a while and a lot of writing and rewriting (and rewriting again) until I was satisfied. Also, I was entirely too lazy to look for a fitting GIF because I just wanted to post this as soon as I finished it.
I do hope you enjoy!
Word Count: around 9800 whoops
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜
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19 - 𝕿𝖜𝖔 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖘
The first thing you notice is the scent. Cedarwood, old parchment, and something entirely unique, and entirely comforting. You are wrapped in a heavy, velvet duvet that feels soft and wonderfully warm. For a heartbeat, you are wondering if you are still dreaming. Then, the events of the previous night - your not quite planned confession, the shoreline, the safety of his arms holding you - flood back to you. A small private smile forms on your lips.
You stretch, and find that you are rested in a way you haven't been in months. Your fingers brush the space next to you. You are alone in the bed. In his bed.
At the realization, a warm feeling blooms in your chest. The lair is dimly lit, the fire having dwindled to a heap of grey ash. Whether it is the deep hours of the night or the early hours of morning; you have no way to tell.
You sit up, your hair tumbling over your shoulders, and scan the room. He is there, sitting quite a bit away, at his drafting table. His back to you und he is perfectly still, his head bowed over a stack of parchment. Even from how far away you are, you can tell he is exhausted. His posture is slumped, and his movements, when he finally stirs to dip his pen, are slow and deliberate. He has clearly not slept.
You don't speak immediately. For a moment, you just watch him. There is something very private about seeing him like this, just a man engrossed in the arts in the early hours. You pull your robe back over your shoulder with a languid grace, and run your fingers through your hair.
Then, he freezes. He must have heard the soft rustle of the fabric as you moved.
He doesn't turn around immediately. You see his shoulders tense, his spine straightening. He seems to be bracing himself, as if expecting you to wake up and demand to be returned to the world above. Slowly, he turns. His face is pale, his visible eye rimmed with exhaustion, and in them insecurity so stark you can make it out from here.
"You are awake.“, he simply says, his voice raspy and devoid of any theatrical resonance. He looks at you, his eyes searching yours with a terrifying amount of uncertainty. "I... I hope you were able to rest well. I have kept the fire low so as not to disturb you.“
"I honestly don't think I have ever slept as well as I did just now.“, you answer softly, your voice filled with genuine contentment. You pause for a moment, wondering how to voice your concern for him not having rested at all, and settle for an insinuation that others might frown upon. „Though…" you say, your voice dropping to a teasing, low cadence. "I might have slept even better if you had come to bed with me."
Erik freezes, the quill hovering over his notes as he feels like his heart will give out. His eyes widen slowly, rendering the look of utter, stunned disbelief on his face almost comical. A flush creeps up his throat, stark against his pale skin. His gaze darts to yours as if he’s trying to decipher if you’re mocking him or if you’ve simply lost your mind. Those are, after all, the only two palpable solutions he can think of at the moment. His throat works as he swallows, struggling to find his voice.
“I… I would not presume–…" he begins, then trails off, his usually eloquent vocabulary failing him completely.
You tilt your head, offering him a small smirk before sliding to the edge of the bed. You let your feet find the ground and stretch, your robe shifting loosely against your frame. You are perfectly aware of his gaze tracking your every movement, his eyes darkening with a flash of something he tries to immediately suppress.
"I would have behaved.", you answer in a playful tone. Then, you stand, perfectly at ease in your half-draped robe. Then, you glance to him over your shoulder with a challenging smile, and add, "…Probably."
His breath hitches and his fingers begin twitching nervously, the quill escaping his grasp and clattering onto the parchment. Erik stares at the spilled ink, his hand still mid-air, then his eyes wander back to you. He doesn't just see his Muse, or his angel. He sees a woman with a dangerous spark of confidence, one who is entirely unimpressed by his attempts at distance. He suddenly feels painfully aware that - as much as you have been a blessing he will never deem himself worthy for - you are, quite deliberately, making it impossible for him to maintain his carefully constructed restraint. It is a dangerous game - one that he presumes has only just started - and it is driving him half-mad already. Still, he finds himself entirely unable to look away.
You see the impact of your words in the way his eyes dilate and the way his jaw works, the way his composure shatters over a mere insinuation. Knowing you hold this much sway over him, even without a single touch, positively thrills you. Nonetheless you turn to him, and apologize. „Apologies, Erik. I have been told I am too bold for my own good sometimes.“ A playful glint remains in your eyes. „Though, I must admit… I cannot say your reactions make me want to stop.“ He swallows hard once more, his hand moving to grip the edge of the desk.
You make your way to him across the stone floor, your movements unhurried and comfortable, closing the distance between the bed and his chair. He watches you, mesmerized, as you come to a stop beside him. You let your eyes travel over his desk, before landing again on his tired face.
You reach out and gently stroke your thumb over his cheek. He leans into your touch before he can stop himself. "I truly appreciate the effort you put into ensuring I am comfortable, Erik.“, you say softly. "But I would be glad if you applied a small amount of said caution to your own well-being." His eyes close, an almost inaudible sigh escaping him.
„Even you need rest, Maestro.“, you say finally, and then let the hand at his cheek drift away. His eyes open slowly, and a faint smile ghosts across his lips. “I find that I am remarkably poor at it.”
Your gaze lands on the desk once more. At first you notice the clutter. Then the sheer volume of it. Parchment upon parchment lies scattered across the surface. Some neatly stacked. Others crumpled and discarded. There are sketches of what might be stage machinery, fragments of musical notation, calculations scrawled into margins.
Your hand hovers over the nearest page. Instantly, Erik tenses. Not dramatically. Not enough that anyone else would notice.
But you do.
“That one is unfinished.”The response makes you pause, the hand that hovered mid-air coming to rest at your side again. You look at him, a silent question in your eyes. The sort that asks permission without demanding it. For a moment, neither of you speaks. His gaze flickers from the parchment, to your face, then away again.
He knows exactly what you are asking, and he knows exactly what is on those pages: A dozen humiliating confessions disguised as music. His throat works as he swallows. Every instinct tells him to gather the papers and throw them into the fire.
Yet there is something in your expression that makes refusal impossible. Not entitlement. Not curiosity for curiosity’s sake.
Trust.
The same trust you have offered him over and over again.
He gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Instantly, a small part of him regrets it. You see it in his face at the exact moment you reach for the page. A look as though just voluntarily handed you a loaded pistol, and is waiting for the consequences.
You lift the page carefully. It is music. Beautiful, haunting, frantically written music. Entire sections have been scratched out. Measures have been rewritten, then rewritten again. Across the top corner, in Erik’s elegant hand, is a single word.
„Angel“
Your breath catches, your eyes flying to his face for a fraction of a second, before you reach for another page. Fragments, variations, discarded lyrics. Another page. A dozen beginnings. None finished.
You look up. “Erik…”
His gaze has dropped firmly to the floor, a dark flush on his neck. For perhaps the first time since you’ve known him, the great Opera Ghost appears genuinely, utterly embarrassed.
“I was occupied.“, he forces out. The understatement is so grand that a small laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
“You composed all night.”, you state, an amused twinkle in your eyes. “No.”, he answers a tad too soon. You raise an eyebrow. His silence stretches for a second, then he mumbles. “…Not all night.”
You stare at the mountain of parchment, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Half the night, then.”
Another pause, in which he completely avoids looking you in the eye.
“Perhaps.”
You look back at the pages. There are enough drafts for an entire opera. Slowly, realization dawns. Every discarded page represents the same thing. Every melody, every lyric, every abandoned attempt.
The same impossible thought, approached from a hundred different angles. You said you loved him. And Erik, apparently, had spent the entire night trying to come to terms with it.
Something tightens painfully in your chest. Not because the pages are romantic, though they are. And not because of the music, though it truly is beyond beautiful. But because of what they reveal.
No part of him had expected this. Even now, after the kisses, after the rooftop, after falling asleep in his arms, some frightened corner of his mind had remained convinced that your confession was too extraordinary to simply accept.
So he had done the only thing he knew how to do. He had studied it, taken it apart note by note and rebuilt it a hundred different ways in an effort to understand how such a thing could possibly be true.
Your gaze drifts from the pages back to him. To his bowed head, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor. To the man who looks less like the feared Opera Ghost and more like someone awaiting a verdict.
Your heart aches for him, terribly so.
God.
How truly lonely he must have been.
Carefully, you set the pages back down onto the desk. You walk around his chair, noting how Erik’s shoulders tense as he tracks your movement. He glances up at you, uncertainty flickering across his features. You step behind him and slowly wrap your arms around his shoulders.
He goes completely still. The room falls silent save for the seldom distant crackle of dying embers, and the soft rustle of your robe. Beneath your arms, you feel the tension coiled through his frame. The rigidity of a man who has spent his entire life expecting affection to be followed by pain.
For a heartbeat, he remains frozen. Then, you feel the slight lowering of his shoulders. You hear his quiet exhale. There is smallest tilt of his head where it comes to rest against your arm. His eyes close once more.
He is surrendering to your embrace one careful inch at a time. Neither of you says anything. For a while, you simply stay like that, holding him.
Eventually, your gaze drifts back toward the sea of parchment covering the desk, and wanders around the lair. “One question, Maestro.”, you mumble, your lips close to his mask. His eyes open again. “Hm?”
“Is there any way to conjure breakfast in this place?”, you ask softly. Erik straightens slightly, his attention snapping to the practical problem before him. “I believe such a thing may be arranged.”, he answers.
The corners of your mouth tug up. “I had hoped so.”, you say, slowly moving up to release him. Almost immediately, he finds himself missing the warmth. Still, he rises from his chair, with as much dignity as possible.
“I should warn you.”, he says, carefully reorganizes several pages that were already perfectly organized. “I do not eat breakfast, so I‘m not as accustomed to preparing it.“ You look him up and down, studying his tall but rather lean frame. “Of course you don’t.”, you say softly.
He pauses, looking at you. You raise an eyebrow. “Do you sleep?”, you ask firmly. “Rarely.”, he answers. You cross your arms, more jokingly than truly defiantly.
“Do you eat lunch?”, you ask next.
“No.”
“Do you possess a single healthy habit?”, you quip, throwing your arms up for emphasis.
Erik opens his mouth to answer, then stops himself. He considers, and then looks at you, complete sincerity in his voice, while in his tone, there is something teasing. “I enjoy music.”
You stare at him for a second, then you start laughing, leading to an expression of quiet triumph on his face. A faint smile remains on his lips as he starts moving around the lair, towards where his kitchen must be.
You follow him. „Neglecting human needs and composing instead does not qualify as a healthy habit.”, you say, half-amused, half-serious. He stops as glances over his shoulder at you.
“Human?“, he asks, mocking a puzzled expression. You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Terrible.”, you mutter. “Many people have said so.”, he counters. The corners of your mouth lift further.
The kitchen, when you finally discover it, is somehow exactly what you expected and nothing like it at all. Copper pans hang from carefully maintained hooks. Shelves are lined with glass jars bearing neat handwritten labels. Every knife is sharpened, every surface spotless. Erik moves to the jars, straightening some of them very slightly. He does that a lot today. Organizing objects that do not need organizing. You realize that though this is his home, there is nothing routine about having you in it. For years, he had imagined you here. Now that it has actually happened, he seems utterly uncertain what to do with himself. The realization is ...unexpectedly endearing.
You smile softly to yourself, deciding not to comment on it. You let your eyes wander some more, and what catches your attention are not mainly the utensils, but a cracked ceramic bowl. The cracks that split its intricate pattern were neatly filled, painted silver, and polished. Then, you notice a cabinet whose hinges are newer than the rest of it. Even the wooden table bears evidence of old fractures lovingly restored instead of replaced.
You slow, letting your fingertips brush the edge of the repaired bowl. Erik, as always, watches you intently. “It cracked years ago.”, he says. You glance at him. Most people would have thrown it away. “It is still functional.”, he adds then.
Your fingertips linger on the crack. A strange warmth settles in your chest. Of course he repairs things.
You think of the organ he built, the secret passages of the opera house, the music he painstakingly rewrites.
Nothing in Erik’s world is disposable. Not if he can help it.
“It is beautiful.”, you say softly, gaze still on the bowl cradled in your hands. Erik looks genuinely confused.
“The bowl?”, he asks. “The repair.”, you answer, holding his eyes. He stares at you for a moment. Then his eyes drift to the to the fracture. A strange expression crosses his face. Something thoughtful, as though he suspects you might not be talking about the bowl at all.
“Most things are discarded once damaged.”, he says quietly.
You glance up at him. The words sound casual enough, but you are aware that they are not. You carefully set the bowl back in its place. “A shame.”, you mumble. His eyes flicker to yours, something hopeful in them. “Perhaps.”, he quietly responds. You tilt your head. “Definitely.”, you correct, your voice soft and firm at the same time.
The corners of his mouth twitch. You can practically see him fighting the conclusion your words invite. The conclusion that if you believe broken things still have value… Then perhaps you might truly believe the same of him.
You step closer and lightly brush your fingers against his sleeve. “What were you planning to make?” The question visibly relieves him.
“I believe there is bread.“, he says. His gestures toward one of the cupboards. “And cheese.”
“A feast.”, you answer triumphantly, at which a small smile lights up his tired face. “I might also possess eggs.”, he adds, giving you a look. You place a hand over your heart.
“I see my efforts have impressed you.”, he says dryly. “Tremendously.”, you answer softly, your tone one of genuine warmth rather than wit.
You glance around the kitchen, and can’t help but wonder if he moves through this place with the same practiced grace he usually carries.
“Can you cook?“
Erik whips around to look at you, looking genuinely offended. “I most certainly can.”, he answers, bewildered. The answer comes so quickly that you can’t help but snort.
Erik narrows his eye at you. “I fail to see what is amusing.” You bite the inside of your cheek, unsuccessfully suppressing a smile.
“Nothing.”, you say, the word passing your own lips way too quickly.
“That is clearly a lie.”, Erik states. Quite right.
“Your reaction merely carried an… unexpected amount of confidence.”, you respond, which in turn has his expression turn even more affronted. The grin on your face refuses to waver.
Then, without another word, he turns to the counter, reaching for a cutting board which he sets down neatly before him. Then, he reaches for the cuffs of his shirt and begins rolling up his sleeves.
Oh.
Your eyes follow his movement as he folds his sleeves neatly, resting them on his forearms. As he pushes them higher, your eyes travel over the lean muscles of his forearms, halting every now and then on some old scars.
You feel warmth creep into your cheeks as you watch his fingers wrap around the loaf of bread, and a large serrated knife. With a precise cut, the first perfectly even slice is shaped.
Erik, of course, is painfully aware of your gaze. Very little escapes him when it comes to you. His movements pause briefly, and then he continues the task he had been pretending to focus on.
You make no effort to look away. If anything, your eyes linger. The sight of him – the great Opera Ghost – standing in the middle of his kitchen with his hair just slightly disheveled, and entirely too much focus on serving you a decent breakfast, feels unexpectedly domestic, but very much endearing.
"Is something wrong?“, Erik asks, and the question is utterly genuine. "No.“, you answer truthfully. His brow furrows as he works. "You are staring.“, he says after a moment, the statement entirely factual, an observation he seems genuinely puzzled by.
You cannot help the smile tugging at your mouth. "Nothing is wrong.“, you insist. But he is far too perceptive, and far too familiar with your expressions. Thus, his concern deepens rather than eases.
"Mon ange…“, he says softly, with a slight tilt of his head „…you are a terrible liar."
Your grin widens at that. "Fortunately for you, Inspector Mercier disagrees." For a moment, Erik simply stares at you. Then, a low chuckle escapes him, warm and genuine.
"An excellent point.", he quips, then his gaze drops, and he suddenly seems further away.
The realization that you had stood in front of an entire room full of people and dismantled every suspicion directed toward him strikes him once more. Above all, the fact that you did all of that, not because he asked, not because he manipulated you, but because you chose to. His gaze softens, and something vulnerable flickers there. Something grateful, too, utterly so.
"I shall amend my statement.“, he says after another moment. "Monsieur Mercier is a man of questionable judgement."
You laugh, and the sound fills the kitchen. He smiles, thinking to himself that your laugh might be the most beautiful melody he has ever heard.
After your bantering, his attention returns to you. You are still looking at him. It is not the same look you have when sketching, or reading, or trying to solve a puzzle. It is not worry, or pity, either.
You are simply… looking.
It makes him nervous, and frankly, he feels clueless. "Then what is it?", he asks in a quiet voice. Your gaze traces the line of his rolled sleeves, the elegant movement of his hands… You found the quiet competence with which he occupies the space around him attractive already, and then he had to roll up his sleeves, too.
Reluctantly, you force yourself to look back up. A slow smile appears on your lips. "I have told you, Erik, nothing is wrong.“ You tilt your head slightly. "Quite the opposite."
Erik blinks, clearly aware that your answer means something, and equally aware that he has absolutely no idea what.
God help him.
For a man capable of designing an underground empire, he can be remarkably dense. His brow furrows further. And as much as this delights you, you do not wish for him to actually feel bad.
"I was looking at you.“, you say softly, and a little matter-of-factly. His posture stills, and his eyes search your face as though the answer must be written there somewhere.
You stare at him for another moment, his inability to connect the dots making your heart swell for him. You let a small, gentle smile tug at your mouth. "You know, for someone who notices so very much, you seem to have a remarkably inaccurate idea of how I might perceive you." He still looks puzzled, nervous even, but stays silent.
"Erik.“, you say softly. „Have you considered the possibility that I might look at you and simply enjoy what I see?"
Eriks eyes find yours, stareing at you in silence. You watch his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief. You can almost see the way his mind examines the possibility, rejects it outright, and then reluctantly circles back to it.
The hand resting on the counter tightens. A dark flush starts creeping up his neck. "You..." he begins, then stops. His gaze darts away before returning to you, as though he cannot quite decide which feels more dangerous.
"You were… looking...", he tries once more, but the sentence dies before he can finish it. You decide, mercifully, not to make him say it. "I am looking…“, you correct him gently „…because I like what I see."
Before he has time to process it further, you lean into his space, reaching for the small piece of bread he already cut. He goes perfectly still, his eyes following your. The flustered way he looks at you has you move with entirely more confidence than you actually feel.
You lean back just enough to look up at him, tearing off a small piece and popping it into your mouth. Slowly, you chew. His gaze remains fixed on you. His blush has spread all the way to his ears, and you are enjoying this far more than you should.
Erik appears incapable of speech, but for one brief, beautiful second, there is something beneath the embarrassment he feels. Something dangerously close to pride. The startled, deeply human satisfaction of discovering that the person he wants most in the world might actually want him in return.
But then he remembers himself. The pride vanishes, replaced by visible horror at the fact that it existed at all.
Your expression softens, and he clears his throat. He turns back toward the counter. “Erik.” When his eyes lift toward yours, you see that the embarrassment has returned tenfold. “There is nothing wrong with you being pleased by that.”
Your words settle between you, gentle in tone but carrying a weight Erik does not seem to know how to hold. A flicker of hope crosses his face, followed almost immediately by disbelief and something so painfully vulnerable that it makes your chest tighten. For a long moment, he simply looks at you, as though he wants desperately to believe what you have said but cannot find a place for it within everything the world has taught him.
His gaze eventually drifts away. With visible effort, he directs his attention back toward the cutting board, the loaf of bread, and the knife still resting beneath his hand.
“I see.” His voice is quiet, stripped of any certainty. You suspect he does not truly see. You know, however, that he is trying, very much so. He carefully sets the knife aside and straightens a fraction, gesturing towards the small table. “Please, sit.” You open your mouth to offer your help, but the words have barely begun to form before he shakes his head. “I can-”
“No.”, he interrupts. The response comes quickly, but there is no sharpness in it. His tone is firm, but in his eyes is an expression that softens the command into a simple request. He does not say please, yet you hear it anyway.
It is not that he wishes to send you away from him. Quite the opposite. If you remain standing beside him, watching him with the same appreciation he has only just begun to comprehend, he may not be able to focus on anything at all. Preparing breakfast gives him something tangible to do, a way to gather his composure while showing, the best way he can, that he cares for you. The thought sends a quiet warmth through you. “As you wish, Maestro.”, you breathe, softly laying your hand on his arm and letting your thumb run over it in a gentle motion. You offer him a soft smile, then make your way toward the small table tucked against the far wall.
It is already a pleasant little place, positioned near enough to the kitchen to catch its warmth. But as Erik moves between the cupboards and the table, it gradually becomes something far more carefully arranged. First, he lays down a fine white silken cloth, smoothing every crease until the fabric rests perfectly flat. Then come a fine pair of plates with delicate patterns around their edges. He selects two cups made of thin porcelain, before arranging the bread, cheese, and preserves with the same precision he applies to a musical score.
You watch in silence, increasingly certain that none of these details would have mattered to him had he been alone. He would likely have eaten, if he remembered to do so at all, while standing over a manuscript or leaning against the corner of his desk. Yet because you are here, every object is chosen with care. He is trying, with the quiet intensity he brings to everything he deems important, to create something beautiful for you.
After a brief hesitation he believes escaped your attention, Erik retrieves a candle and places it in the center of the table. He lights it, adjusts its position by less than an inch, then studies the result with a slight crease between his brows. Apparently still dissatisfied, he disappears into one of the adjoining spaces. When he returns, he carries a slender glass vase in one hand and a single crimson rose in the other. Your breath catches softly, a smile playing on your lips. Erik places the flower beside the candle, carefully turning the vase until the bloom faces your side of the table.
Only then does he seem to remember that you are watching him. His movements pause, and he deliberately occupies himself with rearranging the cutlery. His gestures are so unmistakably tender that it nearly aches. There is no audience here to impress, no role for him to perform and no reason to make this morning into anything more than bread and tea beside a dying fire. He does it all simply because you are present, because he wants you to feel comfortable in a home that has known no guest such as you before.
“This is wonderful. Thank you, Erik.“, you say softly, appreciation evident in your tone. „Though you do not need to go through so much trouble for me.” Erik looks at you, memorizing the way you look while sitting in a space he never thought he’d get to share with another being. “It was no trouble.”, he simply states. “One should maintain certain standards.”, he adds, his tone carrying the faintest trace of defensive dignity.
“Of course.”, you murmur, unable to keep the affection from your voice. “Particularly when entertaining a distinguished guest.”, he says then, the corner of his mouth twitching. That draws a small smile from you. “Distinguished?”, you ask, amused. His eyes finally meet yours, and a subtle warmth appears in them. “You did successfully outwit the police.”
“Ah.“, you quip, nodding. „A compelling argument.”
“I thought so.”, he answers, the ghost of a smile on his face.
His gaze returns to the table, ensuring that everything is precisely where it belongs. There is something deeply endearing about seeing the feared Opera Ghost attempt to navigate a moment this ordinary. The devotion beneath it moves you deeply. The fact that Erik may have little understanding of what an ordinary breakfast shared between two people is supposed to look like, yet he appears determined to give you the very best version of it he can create.
Only when he has inspected the table one final time does he seem to notice a practical difficulty. There is the chair on which you are seated, but none opposite it. Of course there is not. Until this morning, the table had only ever been used by a man who lived entirely alone.
He disappears into the workshop and returns carrying one of the dark wooden chairs from his drafting table. He places it across from you and adjusts its position until it aligns perfectly with the edge of the cloth.
Erik returns to the stove, where the quiet hiss of butter against iron has begun to fill the kitchen. His movements are precise and controlled, though the stiffness of his shoulders betrays how conscious he remains of your presence. He cracks the eggs cleanly with one hand, adds a small amount of salt and herbs, then turns them with the same focused elegance with which he handles difficult passages at the organ.
You rest your chin lightly against your hand and watch him. There is still something almost surreal about it. The same hands that carved hidden mechanisms into the Opera House, composed music that left you breathless, and ended the life of a man only hours ago are now arranging warm bread and eggs for you.
When he carries the final plate to the table, he sets it before you and remains standing beside your chair, his gaze moving over every detail as if searching for some overlooked imperfection.
“It looks lovely,” you assure him. “Please, sit with me.” Erik’s eyes shift to yours.
“I do not usually-”, he begins.
“Eat in the morning,” you finish for him. “Yes. You mentioned that. It would, however, be a rather strange shared breakfast if I were the only one sharing it.”
“Very well.”, he says quietly. Erik serves himself considerably less than he has given you before finally lowering himself into the chair. Even seated, he does not entirely relax. His posture remains straight, his attention fixed on you with a mixture of vigilance and anticipation, as though your first bite were the premiere of a new production.
Before you can reach for the cup, he pours the tea. He adds a little milk, followed by precisely one lump of sugar. You look at it, then back at him. “You know how I take my tea.”, you comment softly. His hand stills around the silver tongs.
A faint unease passes over his face, the reminder of how often he has observed you threatening to turn into shame. “I have seen you drink it before.”, he manages to reply.
“I know,” you answer simply. There is no accusation in your voice, no discomfort. You lift the cup and take a sip, allowing the warmth to settle in your chest. “It is perfect.“, you comment, satisfied. The tension around his mouth eases. “Naturally.”
You smile into the porcelain. It strikes you then how different he seems when the subject is something concrete: Tea. Music. Architecture. Mechanics. Facts that can be observed, measured, and perfected.
With matters of the heart, Erik constantly searches for signs that he has misunderstood, overstepped, or imagined something that was never there. But here, with something as simple as preparing your tea correctly, there is none of that uncertainty. He trusts his own judgment. Trusts his ability to get it right. The realization warms you unexpectedly.
“I am very fortunate…”, you say lightly, lowering your cup. “That the man who has taken an interest in me is quite so attentive.” Erik simply looks at you, a faint smile touching his lips. Some of the stiffness finally leaves his shoulders.
You begin with the bread, which is still faintly warm, and then taste the eggs. They are simple, but perfectly prepared, the herbs used sparingly enough not to overwhelm them. Erik watches your expression with such poorly disguised concentration that you deliberately take another bite before offering your verdict.
“You truly can cook.”, you conclude.
His visible eyebrow rises. There is a flicker of surprise in his expression. Very few people in his life have ever dared to tease him. He is not entirely accustomed to being treated with such audacity. Yet, judging by the faint warmth that touches his eyes, he enjoys it far more than he would ever willingly admit. “Your astonishment remains offensive.”, he replies after a moment.
“I apologize for doubting you.”, you say with slightly exaggerated sincerity. Erik fixes you with a dry, unimpressed look. One dark eyebrow arches slowly, and the corner of his mouth threatens to betray a smile. “No, you do not.”, he replies with quiet certainty.
You tilt your head. “Perhaps I never doubted that everything you do, you do with precision.” A faint note of suspicion - and if he was honest; pride - enters his expression. “You mean…”, he says slowly, “…that you never actually doubted I could cook.”
“Not really.”, you say.
His mouth twitches. “A wise correction.” A faint smile touches his lips as he finally reaches for his own food. He eats slowly, as though the act requires conscious effort. Still, the sight of him sitting across from you, the candle burning between you and the rose turned carefully in your direction, fills you with a contentment you cannot remember ever experiencing before.
For several minutes, the two of you simply eat. The silence is not the hollow absence that usually fills the lair when Erik is alone. It is companionable, broken by the soft clink of porcelain and the occasional dying crackle from the distant hearth.
Eventually, Erik sets his cup down. “The Opera House will be in considerable disorder today.” His fingers trace the edge of the saucer. “Several members of the company left before dawn. Others have threatened to do the same once their belongings are gathered. The managers will spend the morning attempting to convince everyone that Buquet’s death was an unfortunate accident and that the building remains entirely safe.”
“Good.”, you reply dryly, at which Erik glances at you. “If the managers are busy convincing everyone it was an accident it should very much support the same story I gave Mercier. The more people repeat it, the less likely it is that anyone will start looking elsewhere.” A faint warmth enters his gaze at the implication hidden beneath your words.
“In theory.”, he says. “But Messieurs André and Firmin are not especially gifted at influencing people. Firmin possesses a remarkable ability to mistake repetition for persuasion.”
You suppress a smile and let the comment pass. “Do you know who has left?”, you ask instead. “A number of stagehands who were close to Buquet, two members of the chorus have returned to their families, and at least one violinist departed before the Gendarmes had finished their questions.”
You pause over your cup. “The orchestra too?”
“Fear is not limited by profession, mon ange.” The words are spoken gently, without mockery or judgment. Erik's gaze lifts to yours, carrying the certainty of someone who has spent a lifetime observing how fear shapes people. You let out a small breath and lower your eyes to your cup, tracing your thumb along the warm porcelain. “No.”, you say softly, a faint crease appearing between your brows. “I suppose not.”
Erik takes a measured sip of tea before adding, with studied casualness, “Julian has also sent for his trunks.” Your gaze snaps toward him, joy undoubtedly filling your expression. “Truly?”
“I saw them being carried toward the western entrance shortly before dawn.”, Erik replies, in a tone of grave seriousness that is thoroughly undermined by the glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes.
A slow, undeniably pleased smile curves across your lips. “How tragic.”, you say, the words dripping with such transparent insincerity that neither of you could possibly mistake them for genuine sympathy. Erik inclines his head, his mouth twitching at one corner. “The company may never recover.”, he agrees in the same dry tone.
You think for a moment, then roll your eyes. “I am afraid Paris contains countless men capable of kneeling, smirking, and mistaking their own reflection for a personality.”
That earns a visible reaction. Erik's gaze drops briefly to his tea as he fights a smile, though amusement softens his features all the same. “The requirements are… admittedly, not rigorous.”, he says, his voice smooth and thoughtful, as though he is offering a serious artistic assessment.
You laugh again, and this time Erik’s own smile becomes unmistakable. There is no remorse in either of you over Julian’s departure. After the hand against your leg, the whispered suggestion, and his later mockery, the thought of rehearsing without him feels like the first genuinely promising development surrounding Il Muto.
“Perhaps his replacement will possess the rare ability to follow the score.”, you say.
“One can hope.”, Erik answers, dry venom lacing the casualty in which he tried to deliver the statement. Julian's departure clearly pleases him far more than he is attempting to admit. You suspect Erik's feelings toward the man might be somewhere between jealousy, contempt, and the lingering conviction that luring him into one of his traps would have solved several problems at once.
You reach for another piece of bread, tearing it carefully between your fingers. “Though I would prefer if the entire production followed Julian out of the building.”Erik’s expression shifts into quiet interest. “You dislike Il Muto that much?”, he asks. “You must have heard me tell the managers that the plot was shallow.”, you counter.
“I did.” A hint of amusement enters his eyes. “You looked as though Monsieur Firmin had handed you a personal insult bound in leather.”
“I do not wish to sound as arrogant as our former Prima Donna, but it practically was.” You set the bread down. “The entire point of the production is lace and bright colours so the audience overlooks how unpleasant everyone is. The Countess deceives her husband, the Page behaves like an entitled fool, and somehow we are expected to find it charming because the orchestra plays beneath it.”, you say with disdain evident in your voice.
Erik leans back by a fraction, studying you with growing approval. The look that settles over his features is far warmer than simple agreement. For years, he has watched the world excuse cruelty when it is wrapped in elegance, and applaud selfishness when it is delivered with charm. Hearing you reject it so instinctively seems to strike something deep within him.
His gaze lingers on you, intent and unmistakably fond. There is admiration there, and a particular tenderness he reserves only for you. The quiet wonder of discovering, again and again, that your instincts align with the things he values most. You are not criticizing the opera because it is fashionable to do so, or because you wish to appear clever. You genuinely object to the dishonesty at its heart, and Erik looks positively captivated by the fact.
For a fleeting moment, he seems less interested in the discussion than in listening to you speak. Every word delights him. “It glorifies infidelity.”, you continue, “Then makes a comedy of the person being deceived. Perhaps I am particularly ill-suited to the role, but I cannot understand why dishonesty becomes amusing simply because it happens behind a silk fan.”
“While I am not particularly fond of it either, I do not think the adultery is its central failure.”, Erik says after a moment, his tone taking on the thoughtful cadence you know so well from your lessons. “Human beings have always been inclined toward deception, and art would not be what it is if it refused to portray them at their worst. The problem is that Il Muto possesses nothing meaningful to say about it. It mistakes cynicism for wit, humiliation for comedy, and noise for charm.”
You point your piece of bread toward him. “Exactly.” This - his sharp mind, the effortless way he puts words to thoughts you have struggled to articulate yourself - is exactly why you have fallen for him. Even now, discussing a ridiculous opera over breakfast, he speaks with an intelligence and clarity that leaves you wanting to listen forever.
“And the orchestration is insipid.”, he finally declares. “Naturally.”, you reply at once, nodding as though this is the most obvious conclusion in the world. The corner of his mouth twitches.
“The second act”, he continues, lifting one elegant hand in exasperation, “repeats its central motif so relentlessly that one begins to sympathize with the Count's desire to draw a sword.”
You let out a delighted laugh. “Then why, in God’s name, are we performing it?”
“Because it is inexpensive to mount, familiar enough not to frighten the patrons, and provides Carlotta with several opportunities to stand at the center of the stage wearing costly fabric.”, he answers simply. You give him a long look. “Do the managers actually decide the programme themselves?”
Erik’s fingers still against his cup. Something almost mischievous appears in his gaze. “They believe they do.”, he says smoothly, lifting his cup to his lips as though the answer is entirely innocent.
You study him for a moment. “And do they?” you ask, arching a brow. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Occasionally.”
You narrow your eyes at him, fighting a smile. “The official selection of productions is the responsibility of Messieurs André and Firmin.”, he explains. “I merely offer guidance when their artistic judgment becomes intolerable.”
A spark of mischief enters your eyes. “By sending threatening letters.”
“Among other methods.”, he replies smoothly.
“Dropping scenery.”, you add, an amused twinkle in your eye.
“Only when the written word fails.”
“Sabotaging carriages.”, you say then, lifting a brow in challenge, unable to keep the amusement from your voice.
He inclines his head. “That matter was unrelated to the programme.”
You hide your smile behind your cup. “Of course.”
His gaze lingers on you over the candle flame, warm with the knowledge that you see the absurdity in him and remain entirely untroubled by it. After a moment, he glances toward the distant darkness beyond the kitchen. “The managers will likely suspend rehearsals for the morning.”, he says. “But by the afternoon, they will insist that the company return to work. Firmin will claim that routine is necessary for morale. In truth, he will be concerned that a closed theatre gives the newspapers too much freedom to speculate.”
“And the public?”, you ask. Erik's mouth curves into something faintly bitter as he lifts his cup. “They will return in greater numbers.”, he says, the certainty in his voice leaving no room for doubt. You study him for a moment, already knowing the answer before you ask. “Even after watching a man die?”
“Because they watched a man die.” Erik’s voice carries no surprise, only the weary certainty of someone who has observed the ugliest parts of human fascination for too long. “The tragedy will become scandal, the scandal will become spectacle, and by tomorrow evening half of Paris will be desperate to sit beneath the very spot from which Buquet fell.”
The thought leaves a bitter taste behind the pleasant warmth of the tea. You glance at the rose between you, its crimson petals luminous in the candlelight. A faint look of disgust crosses your face. You shake your head and set your cup down a tad more firmly than intended.
“People are awful.”, you mutter. Erik watches you over the rim of his cup, his expression unreadable save for the slight softening in his eyes. “People are predictable.”
You huff out a breath and lean back in your chair. “You do realize you are included in that word.” One dark eyebrow lifts.
“Debatable,” he replies dryly.
A smile returns to your lips. “We have already established your humanity this morning. I will not permit you to revise the conclusion because it inconveniences you now.”
The corner of his mouth lifts almost imperceptibly as he reaches for another piece of bread, the faint expression carrying a quiet, unmistakable enjoyment of your audacity. Another person has just told the Opera Ghost what he is and is not permitted to do. And rather than objecting, he is secretly absurdly pleased by it.
As the meal continues, the candle burns lower, and the silence beyond the kitchen gradually begins to change. Somewhere far above, a door slams. A faint metallic sound travels through the stone. The building is waking.
Erik hears it before you do. “You must return soon.”, he says. The words are quiet, reluctance weighing on every syllable.
You look down at what remains of your breakfast. The warmth of the kitchen, the flickering candle, and the extraordinary man seated across from you feel like an impossible contrast to the chaos waiting for you above. For a selfish moment, you consider ignoring the day entirely and remaining here indefinitely.
“I know.”, you mumble finally.
Erik remains seated for a while longer after the conversation fades, one hand resting near his untouched cup. The breakfast is finished. The day is waiting. Yet neither of you seems eager to be the first to break the fragile peace that has settled over the kitchen.
His gaze drifts over the table as though committing the scene to memory. When he finally rises, it is with palpable reluctance. He begins gathering the dishes as the inevitability of your departure settles over him.
You watch him for a moment before standing and crossing the small distance between you. “Erik.” He pauses, turning toward you. You step into his space and place a gentle kiss against his exposed cheek. He goes still. Your lips linger only briefly, yet when you draw away, his gaze has softened into something almost dazed.
“Thank you,” you whisper. “For all of it.”
“It was only breakfast.”, he replies, his voice slightly raspy.
“No.”, you say softly. “It wasn’t.”
He knows precisely what you mean, that you know how unusual this is to him and how much he tries to not show exactly that too much. Judging from the way his throat works as he swallows, the understanding affects him deeply.
He lowers the plates back onto the table. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then his expression changes, tenderness giving way to concern.
“You were seen defending me last night.”, he says quietly. There is no accusation in his voice, only unease, as though the thought has been troubling him ever since dawn. You tilt your head, studying him. “I was seen offering a plausible account of an accident.”, you reply, your tone light but steady.
His mouth tightens slightly. “Raoul did not believe it.” At that, one of your brows lifts. A faint note of exasperated amusement enters your expression. “Raoul believes I require rescuing from nearly every decision I make.”
A shadow passes through Erik’s eyes. His jaw shifts almost imperceptibly before he looks away for a moment. “He is persistent.”, he says dryly, carrying a clear edge of irritation.
You slide your hand down his arm until your fingers find his. “He may suspect whatever he likes. Suspicion is not proof.” You say it lightly, almost dismissively, but your gaze remains steady.
“Y/N—” Your name leaves Erik's lips in a low warning, his brow drawing together beneath the edge of his mask. Concern darkens his eyes, mingling with frustration and something perilously close to guilt.
“I did not invent evidence.”, you reply before he can continue. Your voice remains gentle, but there is unmistakable firmness beneath it. “I told Mercier that Joseph had been drinking, that he was carrying a rope, and that he was searching the rafters.” You hold his gaze without flinching. “Every word was true.”
Erik's jaw tightens. “You guided him toward the conclusion you required,” he says quietly. He sounds troubled by how easily he recognizes the strategy, and above all, by how willingly you employed it on his behalf.
A small, unapologetic smile touches your lips. “Yes.”
The blunt admission stills him. For a moment, he simply looks at you, searching your face as though expecting hesitation or regret. You squeeze his hand, your expression softening. “I know what I am doing, Erik.”
His gaze searches yours, clearly torn between awe at your composure and fear that his existence will pull you into dangers you should never have to face. “You should not be required to stand between me and the consequences of my actions.”
“I was not required to do anything.” Your voice remains gentle, though an edge of firmness stays. “I chose to. There is a difference.”
His fingers tighten around yours. “You say such things as though choice alone makes them safe.” The words leave him low and strained, frustration and fear tangled together beneath the controlled surface of his voice.
“No.”, you say gently, your fingers tighten around his. “It means it was my decision to make. And that you do not get to carry the responsibility for every choice I make simply because it involves you.”
You hold his gaze, letting the words settle between you. His attempts to protect you often carry the danger of denying your agency, and while you can understand it, you are certainly too stubborn for it.
After a long moment, Erik lowers his head. “I know better than to attempt to command you.”, he murmurs at last, lowering his gaze with a mixture of resignation and reluctant admiration. The words are quiet, but there is a softness to them that was not there when he first spoke.
“You are learning.”, you reply, unable to keep the teasing note from your voice. His eyes lift to yours again. For a moment, they linger there, warm despite the lingering concern shadowing them. The faintest trace of dry amusement returns to his expression.
“Slowly, it appears.”, he says, one eyebrow arching ever so slightly.
“But impressively.”, you reply.
A huff of breath that is almost a laugh escapes him. The corner of his mouth twitches upward, and though the smile is brief, it transforms his face in a way that never fails to affect you.
The sight of it tugs at something warm inside your chest. Before you can overthink it, you step closer and slide your arms around his neck, drawing him down toward you. For a fraction of a second, surprise flashes across his features.
Then you kiss him.
Erik makes the softest sound against your lips, one hand immediately finding your waist while the other comes to rest at your back. The kiss is gentle, lingering just long enough for you to feel some of the tension leave him beneath your touch.
When you finally pull away, his gaze remains fixed on yours, slightly dazed. His concern does not disappear, but it loosens enough for him to accept what you are saying. You will be careful. You will not announce your allegiance to the entire company, nor place yourself recklessly beneath the attention of the police. Yet neither will you pretend that protecting him was a weakness or a mistake.
Erik reaches toward the center of the table and removes the rose from its vase. A drop of water travels down the smooth, thornless stem as he dries it carefully against a cloth. Then he offers it to you. “For the world above,” he says softly.
The old-fashioned gallantry of it is so earnest that warmth blooms in your chest. You accept the flower with a smile, your fingers brushing his. “So that no one suspects a thing?”, you ask lightly, amusement dancing in your eyes.
His gaze drops briefly to the crimson petals before lifting to your face. For a moment, something sheepish flickers across his features. “I fear subtlety may have abandoned us.”, he replies dryly. The instant the words leave his mouth, a faint flush creeps across the visible portion of his face, as though he has realized exactly how absurdly obvious the connection between the two of you may have become.
“Then I shall simply allow them to speculate.”, you say defiantly. Erik's expression shifts into one of resignation, though there is reluctant fondness beneath it. “That is precisely what concerns me.”, he says, his tone grave despite the color still lingering in his cheeks.
“I spent nine years wandering this house while pretending not to know there was a man inside its walls.” You tuck the rose securely into your robe. “I believe I can manage a few dancers and an overly concerned Vicomte.”
Erik looks as though he wants to object, but he cannot dispute the evidence. You had known of him long before he understood that he had been discovered. If anyone in the Opera House is capable of maintaining a secret, it is you. He finally inclines his head. “Very well.” It makes you smile.
Together, you leave the kitchen. The carefully arranged table remains behind you, the candle still burning beside the now-empty vase. When you glance back, the sight brings another quiet ache to your chest. Before this morning, there had only been one chair at that table.
Now there are two.
At the edge of the lake, Erik helps you into the boat, his hand remaining around yours until you are safely seated. The journey back is quiet. He rows with measured strokes, though his gaze returns to you whenever he can allow it, the minutes of your presence something he is unwilling to waste.
As the opposite shore draws near, the faint sounds of the Opera House grow a little clearer. Erik steadies the boat against the quay and offers his hand. Once you have stepped onto the stone, he does not release you immediately.
“You should change before anyone comes looking.“, he says. “Madame Giry will likely ensure you are granted some peace, but the managers will want to speak with you. Meg Giry will want… considerably more.”
You cannot help smiling at the thought of Meg. After the hints you had given her, and with her knowing exactly who your mysterious tutor is, there is little chance she will allow you to survive the morning without a thorough interrogation. A fond smile tugs at your lips. “I can handle Meg.”
Erik lets out a quiet breath through his nose, somewhere between amusement and resignation. “I have witnessed her persistence.”, he replies dryly. “She means well.”, you insist, unable to suppress a small giggle. “That does not make her less dangerous.”, he says with perfect seriousness, though there is a faint amused glimmer in his eyes.
You laugh softly, and Erik’s thumb brushes across the back of your hand, his expression turning somber as you reach the hidden staircase leading toward the mirror.
At the threshold between his world and yours, you turn to face him. He stands in the narrow passage, the white of his mask pale against the darkness, his eyes fixed on you with a longing he makes no attempt to conceal.
“I will see you again.”, you say. It is not a question. His fingers close more firmly around yours. “You know where to find me.”, he breathes in reply.
“I always have.”, you say. His gaze softens, carrying the memory of all those years in which you wandered the hidden passages beneath his silent watch, both of you not quite alone while moving through the darkness.
You rise onto your toes and press one final, gentle kiss to his lips. Erik responds with aching care, his free hand finding your waist as though he needs to steady himself against the reality of it. The kiss remains soft, unhurried, carrying none of the desperation of the night before. It is a promise of return.
When you draw away, his eyes remain closed for another heartbeat. Then he releases you with visible reluctance and reaches for the mechanism. The mirror begins to slide open. Warm morning light spills into the passage, catching against the crimson rose tucked into your robe.
You step into the Prima Donna’s suite and turn back. Erik remains in the darkness, watching you as though the boundary between the two worlds is the cruelest piece of architecture he has ever designed.
“Rest.”, you remind him. A faint, weary smile touches his lips. “I shall attempt it.”
“Not a suggestion, Maestro.”, you answer firmly. His eyebrow lifts, but before he can answer, the mirror begins to close. The last thing you see is the warmth in his eyes. Then the glass settles into place, leaving you alone with your reflection.
For a moment, you remain there. Beyond the locked door of your room, the Opera House is already stirring with grief, gossip, and fear. The managers will be calculating. The company will be whispering. Raoul will be watching you more closely than ever.
But beneath all of it, deep below the stone and water, a candle is burning beside a table now set for two.
𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖑, pt. 18
phantom of the opera x reader
AN: Updates might be kinda slow atm, real life is a lot rn. Apologies. A super tiny bit of the slightest NSFW content ahead, absolutely nothing explicit though. Hope you enjoy (feedback is - as always - appreciated) and thank you for being patient with me.
Word count: 3600ish
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜
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18 - 𝕬𝖋𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒
The charcoal pencil slips from his fingers, rolling across the parchment before clicking to a halt against the edge of his model. Eriks entire frame goes rigid. His eyes are wide, and in them you see a vulnerability so raw it’s almost painful to look at. He shakes his head, a subconscious micro-movement of utter denial.
"...What?" he whispers. He says it so quietly it's nearly swallowed by the ambient crackle of the hearth. He is waiting for the punchline of a cruel joke, or worse, to finally wake up from this delusion.
"I love you.", you repeat, your voice clear and steady through the quiet of his sanctuary.
A choked sound - halfway between a sob and a gasp of pure vertigo - escapes him. He springs upward from his chair, the wood scraping sharply against the floor. He staggers backward, moving several paces away from you into the center of the workshop. He stands with his back partially turned to you, his fingers twitching violently at his sides. His chest heaves, his breathing turning shallow as the meaning of your words crashes over him.
He shakes his head again, more frantically this time, his jaw trembling. Tears overflow his lower lid, tracing lines down his exposed cheek. He feels a joy too great for his scarred soul to contain. But of course, he also can’t surpress the lifelong instinct that he is entirely unworthy of it.
He wants to look at you, but he forces his eyes away, staring at the floor. "You cannot…", he chokes out, his voice cracking in despair. "You do not know what you are saying, Y/N. You have not seen my face. And if you saw what lies beneath, if you looked upon the horror standing before you, you would not… you could not…”, he trails off, the sentence having several possible endings in his mind. You would not say those words to me, and you could not possibly love me.
You slowly rise from your chair, pondering your next words with deliberate tenderness. "I would be lying if I said I didn't want to see your face, Erik.", you say softly. "But the truth is... I really don't have to. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not in a month, or a year." Erik flinches as if struck, turning around slowly to look at you. His brown eyes are wide with utter disbelief, staring at you through a thick veil of tears. "What is beneath your mask will not change how I see you, or what I feel for you.", you continue, stepping just a little closer. "What is most important to me is that you feel safe with me, Erik. And if that means I will never see what is beneath your mask, then that is entirely okay with me."
A broken sob tears from his chest, and his legs give out beneath him. Erik falls to his knees right before you, his hands clutching desperately at the ivory silk of your robe. He buries his masked face against your skirt, his entire frame trembling with violent, cathartic weeping.
"I do not deserve this.”, he mumbles between sobs, his voice choked and muffled by the fabric. His hands grip you with a reverent tightness. "I do not deserve you..."
You sink to your knees in front of him, his hands letting go of the fabric of your skirt. "Erik.", you say softly, your voice a gentle command for his attention. He slowly lifts his head, dragging his eyes upwards to meet yours through a blur of tears.
"You do.", you tell him.
Erik casts his gaze down again, lightly shaking his head in an instinctive gesture of denial. You take his hands and nod at him, your expression one of unwavering conviction. “You do.", you repeat. His eyes lock onto yours. You take a breath, the corner of your mouth tugging upwards. "I will tell you as many times as it takes for you to believe me." you add, your voice laced with stubborn certainty.
At the obstinacy of your devotion, the ghost of a smile breaks through his grief. He lowers his head, pressing a slow, trembling, and utterly reverent kiss to the back of your hand. You stay like that for a moment, holding hands as his ragged breathing begins to slow. Once the violent tremors in his shoulders quiet into what is almost stillness, you gently squeeze his fingers.
"Come." you murmur, offering him a warm, encouraging smile. "We still have some adjustments to do on the shoreline, and I most definitely want to see if it will work."
Erik stands, extending a hand to help you up. Unspoken gratitude radiates from him. For a man haunted by shame, your seamless pivot back to his project is a lifeline. You aren't treating him like a fragile broken thing, nor are you weaponizing his vulnerability. You are allowing him to be himself, which is yet another miracle to him.
As you both step back to the drafting table, it is undeniable that something fundamental has shifted. It is visible in the gravity of his gaze. He looks at you even more frequently now, his brown eyes tracking your movements with a newfound awareness.
Returning to your chairs, Erik reaches for some crafting tools; steel chisels, miniature gouges, and cedarwood. "Can I try carving one, too?" you ask, though you have no experience whatsoever in woodcarving. Erik blinks, his expression one most fittingly described by pleasant surprise. "Certainly.”, he murmurs. He sets a small block of wood before you and selects a curved detail chisel. He hands it to you, careful to hold it in a way that you can grab the handle without your skin being near the steel.
For the next hour, the workshop is filled with the comforting sounds of creation. The s satisfying sound of steel cleanly parting wood mixes with the scent of the cedar shavings piling on the table, and the quiet crackle of the hearth. Erik is an astonishingly gentle instructor, and he is more patient than you would have guessed. Whenever you cant quite seem to get an area to the shape you wished for, he leans close, his chest brushing your shoulder as he lightly guides your wrist, showing you how to angle the blade.
You both take a while to pin the new, hand-carved shoreline pieces securely into place. When you are finished, the miniature stage looks remarkably organic, the jagged rocks tilted toward the center. Erik steps back, letting his eyes wander over the model, and nods. He gestures toward the small silver crank on the side.
You lean forward, your fingers finding the handle, and give it a smooth, steady turn. The brass gears click into a synchronized dance. The wooden waves begin to ripple, and from the hidden chamber beneath, the mist rises. This time, the draft catches the fog against the curves of the shoreline you just built together. The mist is forced inward, gathering momentum until it spirals upward in a breathtaking, ghostly vortex right around the miniature ship.
"Oh, Erik!" you cry out, a radiant, joyful laugh escaping your lips. "It works! It looks positively eerie, and absolutely wonderful!"
Erik doesn't look at the stage. He is looking entirely at you.
As he watches the genuine joy on your face, and the way the light dances in your eyes as you smile, a realization takes root in his mind.
Your fierce words of affection hadn't magically cured him. A single night could never wash away decades of systematic cruelty, or the deeply ingrained hatred he felt whenever he thought of himself. The dark, twisted roots of his self-loathing are still very much intact.
But as he looks at you, all the ways you treat him with kindness come crashing back to him. The gentle touch of your delicate hands. The utter lack of disgust in your eyes when you look at him, even as he wept. The way you trust him with the most painful fragments of your past. The fact that you are here, contentedly covered in wood carvings, despite what feels like half of Paris wanting to be your suitor.
He arrives at a conclusion that is both beautiful and utterly devastating.
He believes you.
He believes that your feelings are real.
It is a terrifying epiphany for a man who has used solitude as a shield. To accept that you truly love him means tearing down his own armor. It means allowing himself to hope, which might be the most dangerous thing a monster like him can do. Yet, looking at your smile, he realizes he has already surrendered.
He is entirely, irrevocably yours.
"It is perfect." Erik whispers, his voice soft and low. His gaze carries an intensity that quite clearly has nothing to do with the model, and everything to do with you.
As the mechanism winds down and the mist dissipates, a peaceful silence settles over the workshop. The absolute emotional storm of the night has finally passed, leaving behind a deep, comforting warmth.
Erik notices the exhaustion pulling at your eyelids, and a multitude of considerations cross his mind. The thought of sending you back to the prima donna room feels like a physical wrenching of his spirit. He wants you here, safe within the dark empire he has carved for himself. He wants you as close as he has rarely ever permitted himself to imagine.
Yet, he feels he is a shadow, and you are the light; he is terrified that if he reaches out, he might extinguish the very thing he truly wishes to protect.
Still, he finds himself offering his arm, guiding you away from the cluttered drafting tables and back to the plush velvet settee. You sit and watch him as he retrieves the two crystal goblets of Firmin's imperfect wine. He hands you your glass, and sits down beside you.
He sits beside you, his posture rigid as he keeps an agonizingly respectful distance. His eyes travel over your form. You see them lingering on your neck, then move to your lips, his gaze burning with an uncertainty that makes your heart ache. You shift to put your glass aside, feeling him track your every move. Then, you lean into his space. When your faces are mere inches apart, you see his eyes flickering to your lips once more. His throat bobs as he swallows. You look up to him through your lashes, staying close, waiting for him to close the gap.
But he doesn’t.
"You are impossible, Erik.", you say, and cannot help but chuckle softly. He blinks, startled, his eyes searching your face. "I... I do not follow." he stammers, his voice barely a breath. You tilt your head slightly, letting your own gaze drop from his eyes to his lips. "Kiss me.“, you whisper, holding his eyes once more.
A subtle tremor runs through his frame. Your words are a command he is starving to obey. He sets his glass aside and reaches out, his hand rising to trace the line of your jaw. You can feel the faint trembling of his fingers - slightly cold from holding the glass - against your skin. With a maddening slowness, he slides his thumb from your jaw to your lower lip, tracing the sensitive skin there. He sees the way your breath hitches, the way a flush creeps up your neck, and he finds himself struck by a wave of pride.
"In all the dark, lonely years I have spent dreaming of this…", he murmurs, his voice barely a rasp, "I never dared imagine that you would look at me as you do now."
And with that realization, he stops listening to the internal voices filled with self-loathing and fear, and instead listens only to the frantic beating of his own heart.
He leans in, letting his hand move to cup the back of your neck. He tilts your head up, then his lips find yours. They are soft, so very soft, as he kisses you with a reverence that borders on worship. His other hand comes up to rest against your waist, anchoring you to him.
The kiss breaks painfully slowly, as slowly as it began, and the air between you feels like something sacred. You pull back just enough to look at him. Then, using the fact that one of his arms is still on your waist, you move to rest your head against his shoulder. Erik stiffens as he feels one of your arms wrapping around his middle. But then, feeling the weight of you against him, his posture thaws. He shifts slightly to ensure you are comfortable. Inwardly, he is breathless, feeling something close to… happiness? To feel you resting against him, to feel the rhythm of your breathing matching his, feels like his most profound accomplishment.
You are curled into him, tucking your legs up onto the settee, while he sits with his arm firmly, if somewhat tentatively, draped around your waist. He does not dare move the hand that rests at your side, content with feeling the warmth of you through the fabric of your dress. For a long while, there is only comfortable silence in the sanctuary that is his home.
Eventually, Erik breaks the quiet, his voice dropping into a low, inquisitive hum. "Earlier…" he murmurs, his gaze fixed on the dying glow of the fire, "…you mentioned your world was stained before…“, he uses his free hand to vaguely gesture to himself. „I have wondered... do you mean the fire, or the circumstances surrounding it?" He pauses, his hesitation palpable.
You feel a tightness forming in your chest, luckily not as intense as it was before. You exhale slowly, your gaze turning distant, staring past the fireplace into the dark, yawning shadows. You tell him of the man who had followed you, the persistence of him, and the desperate moment where you had been forced to protect yourself. You speak without tears, your voice hollow and steady, detached from the memory as if recounting a nightmare that had happened to someone else.
Erik had gone still, listening intently. He stares at you at the realization of what you just told him.
He has never, ever imagined that the kindhearted woman in his arms - the one who sees beauty in his mechanics and something worthy in his wretched soul - has been forced to take a life.
As his shock dissipates, it is replaced by a blistering rage. Not towards you, of course, but toward the man who had dared to threaten you, to stain your innocence with his utterly unwanted attention. His grip on your waist tightens, his fingers pressing firmly into you. "That scum…", he growls, the vibration of his voice rumbling through his chest against your ear. "He deserved far more than what you gave him. He was a blight. I would have–…“ He catches himself, the hand that lay on the armrest now a white-knuckled fist. He pulls you even closer, resting his chin on the top of your head as if to shield you from the very memory of it.
His rage subsides into a protectiveness that envelops you like a weighted blanket. The conversation dies away into the quiet of the night. Nothing more needs to be said, and you are positively exhausted. As the firelight fades into the softest pulsating orange, the residual tension of the long day finally unwinds.
You feel profoundly safe, cocooned in the strength of his arms and the warmth of his body. The world above ceases to exist, and with Erik’s heart beating next to you, you slip away into unconsciousness, letting sleep take you over.
The fire has burned down to the weakest, deep orange pulse. Erik does not move. In fact, he has not at all moved in an over hour. He is terrified that even a shallow breath might disturb your peace. That if he stirs, the reality of you resting here – safe and warm with his arm wrapped around your middle –will evaporate like a fever dream.
He feels the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of your chest against his side. It is a cadence so beautiful it puts all he‘s ever composed to shame. It is sacred.
He stays like that for a long time, watching you, memorizing the way your hair spills over his sleeve. He knows he cannot keep you here forever. The world above is waiting, and he knows he is a shadow that will snuff out your light if he forces you to stay in the dark. But maybe, just maybe, he can keep you for tonight.
With agonizing care, he adjusts his position, careful to keep a steadying arm on your back. He half stands, half kneels to put another arm beneath your legs. Slowly, he lifts you up, earning a soft sleepy hum from you. He stops, and you instinctively shift, your head tucking deeper into his chest, your hand coming up to rest against it.
Erik freezes entirely, his heart hammering against his ribs. The simple, trusting movement making him hold his breath for a second. He carries you toward the velvet-draped bed, moving as if you are made of blown glass; weightless and infinitely precious.
He lays you down gently, pulling back to drape the duvet up to your shoulders. As he does, your robe shifts slightly, sliding open just enough to reveal the curve of your collarbone and the soft, pale skin of your chest.
The air in the room suddenly feels thin.
His gaze lingers on the exposed skin, his breath catching. He sees the way your chest rises and falls in the quiet dark, and for a moment, his adoration shifts into something else. For a fleeting second, his thoughts spiral. He wonders what it would be like to be there, beside you. To be so close to you. To be feel the warmth of your skin on his fingertips, and the thrumming of your pulse beneath his lips. To hear the beautiful, soft sounds you might make. To have you want him not for his mind, but for the man he tries so desperately to suppress. His pulse thrums in his throat. His body betrays him, reminding him that somewhere beneath the monster, he indeed is a man.
He clenches his hands into fists at his sides, turning his face away from the bed. You are a monster, the inner voice screams, and she is an angel. He shouldn't be having these thoughts. Not when you have just given him your trust, not when you have been nothing but a pure, unwavering light in his miserable life. He counts himself lucky you tolerate him at all; he should be grateful, not greedy.
He forces himself to walk away, his movements stiff as he retreats to his writing desk. He sits, the heavy silence of the lair pressing in on him, and pulls a sheet of parchment toward him. He picks up his pen, his hand still trembling, and begins to pour what he feels onto the page; dark, swirling lines of melody that speak of longing, possession and a hunger he does not want you to see. He finds himself constructing a musical cage for his desires so they may never escape to hurt you.
Hours pass.
He does not sleep.
Instead, he spends the night alternating between composing and stealing glances towards the bed. He watches the way you breathe, the way the firelight catches your profile, and as he does, he finds that the cruel voice of his own self-loathing has grown strangely quiet. In the presence of your sleeping form, the abyss that usually threatens to swallow him feels distant.
He realizes that when you are near, he does not have to fight as hard to exist; he simply is. Which might be the most healing thing he has ever known.
But his mind inevitably drifts to the world above, and his insecurity and jealousy return. He is aware that with every new performance, the Opera House will fill with the men who hunger for you. He imagines the Raouls and Julians of the world, the entitled crowds who gather to watch you perform. He has seen them before, the hundreds of eyes that drink in your light while he is bound to the shadows.
The frustration coils in his gut, sharp and painful. A primitive, monstrous part of him wants to build walls, to lock you away where no one can ever look upon you again, to keep you entirely for himself.
But then, his eyes find your sleeping face once more, and he thinks of the brilliant mind behind it. He knows the fire in your eyes when you sing, the sheer joy of your craft.
To lock you away would be to extinguish the very thing he loves. He realizes, with a dawning sense of clarity, that he cannot be the selfish beast part of him yearns to be.
Simply because he loves you.
Truly.
Painstakingly.
Wholly.
So he needs a plan.
A strategy for a life he never thought he could have.
He needs to figure out how to navigate your career and your suitors, to have you be as brilliant as you were meant to be without loosing you.
And above all, he must find a way to bridge the insurmountable gap between his realm of darkness and your existence in a world of light.
𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖑, pt. 17
phantom of the opera x reader
AN: Honestly I just want to thank you again for the kind and frankly, very very flattering comments regarding my writing style. Definitely motivates me to try and keep it up. Hope you enjoy the new chapter. x
Word count: 4041
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜
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17 - 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕿𝖊𝖒𝖕𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕿𝖎𝖉𝖊
By the time you reach the foyer, the gilded halls of the Opéra are full of Gendarmes, their dark uniforms a contrast to the pastel stage you were on just minutes ago.
In the hallway outside the managers’ office, a sharp-eyed man in a heavy coat is introducing himself toMonsieurs André and Firmin. The inspector - Mercier is his name - looks up as Raoul leads you forward, his hand still anchored to your shoulder.
"Is this the girl?" Mercier asks, his voice like gravel. He gives you a once-over, looking at the rose tucked into your bodice and the embroidery of your gown. "I need to interrogate her. She was the closest to the... incident."
"With all due respect, she is not the girl, Inspector.", Firmin interjects, "She is our Prima Donna. And she has just witnessed a tragedy."
"She’s been through enough for one night," Raoul adds, his grip tightening. "Surely this can wait until morning?"
"It’s alright, Raoul. Thank you, Monsieur Firmin." you say, stepping forward and gently disengaging from Raouls arm. You offer the Inspector a weary but kind smile, painting the picture of a shaken but dutiful citizen. "Inspector Mercier is simply doing his job. I would be happy to help. So let me do so while the details are fresh.”
Raoul looks ready to protest, but your calm authority silences him. He insists on accompanying you into the office, hovering behind your chair like a sentinel. The managers sit down across you. Mercier closes the door and stands, holding his notebook.
You can feel that Erik is there, too. Listening.
"Tell me what you saw, Mademoiselle," Mercier says, giving you a curt nod that most likely was meant to be encouraging. "I was singing the aria.", you begin, your voice steady but tinged with a delicate tremor. "I was a little nervous, for I initially was not meant to play the lead today. But as I did, I noticed Joseph roaming above the stage. He was... agitated. He had his rope in hand, tied to form a noose, as he often does when he’s ‘hunting’ for things in the rafters."
"Hunting?" Mercier asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Monsieur Buquet was...", you pause, casting a quick, meaningful glance at the managers. "It was a poorly kept secret among the cast that he spent much of his time with a bottle of cognac for company. He had a temper, and a certain… instability."
The silence in the room is… delicious. You can almost see the gears turning in the managers' heads. A murderous Ghost is a lawsuit and a closing of the theater; a drunken accident is a tragic headline and a sold-out show in his honor.
André catches your drift. He clears his throat, jumping on the lifeline you’ve just thrown. "It’s true, Inspector. We’ve had complaints about his drinking. He was convinced the house was haunted. It’s highly probable he simply... lost his footing. A man in that state, carrying his own rope? It’s a recipe for disaster."
"But the voice!" Raoul interupts, his eyes wide. "Inspector, we all heard it. The voice from the ceiling. It warned us! It had demands!" You turn your head slowly, looking at Raoul with a pitying expression.
"Raoul, truly?", you murmur softly. "Do you really believe in the same ghastly ghost stories that Joseph told? The stories that, quite frankly, led to his state of mind?"
"I know what I heard, Y/N!", he shouts, his loss of composure adding to the story you’re selling.
"We heard a voice, yes.", you retort calmly. "But this is a theater, Raoul. It is a house of trickery, if you will. Isn't it far more likely that someone Joseph had bullied, or argued with - another stagehand, perhaps - decided to play a cruel joke? To mock his superstitions? They likely didn't intend for him to fall, but the timing was... unfortunate."
You look back at Mercier, who is nodding slowly, scribbling down your words. A drunken accident during a malicious prank works much more smoothly for a police report than the Opera Ghost.
"A tragedy, of course.", you conclude, your voice dropping to a somber whisper. "But hardly a supernatural one."
Behind the wallpaper, hidden in the veins of the building, Erik stands frozen. He listens to you weave your web, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had never expected the sheer, cold-blooded cunning of your defense.
He watches through the spy-hole as you sit there in your ivory silk, looking every bit the innocent Nightingale, while you dismantle the investigation with a few well-formed sentences. He feels a surge of awe so powerful it almost rivals his love. You aren't just an angel. You are a mastermind.
"I think I’ve heard enough for tonight.", Mercier says, closing his book. "Thank you, Mademoiselle. Your clarity is... refreshing." Mercier nods at you, and bids the others farewell.
Raoul looks at you, his expression a mix of confusion and mounting frustration. He knows something is wrong, but under your calm, steady composure, he has no ground to stand on. You have protected the Opera House, the managers' pockets, and the man in the shadows - all in one clever statement.
After you exit the office, Raoul waits until you pass the remaining Gendarmes before he grabs your wrist and pulls you into an alcove. "Why did you lie, Y/N?" he asks, his voice a low whisper. "You knows as well as I do that it wasn't a prank. That voice... it was him."
You look him directly in the eye, your expression cold and unbothered. "I didn't lie, Raoul. Not about a single thing. I told the Inspector that Joseph was drinking, which he was. I told him Joseph was hunting in the rafters, which he was. And I told him that the most likely explanation was a tragic accident." You tilt your head slightly. "If they choose to believe the more rational explanation over a ghost tale, that is hardly my fault." Raoul looks at you as if he’s seeing a stranger. He opens his mouth to argue, but you are already turning away.
In the main hall, André and Firmin are practically giddy with relief. With Carlotta having fled the building, again, you are now their only hope for the season… again. The managers descend upon you like two grateful courtiers. "Anything you need, Mademoiselle." Firmin says, "The Prima Donna suite is yours. We will have your belongings moved immediately.”
"I would like to rest, I believe.", you say. "A long, good night’s sleep would be lovely, after the events of today."
"Of course, of course!" André chirps. Firmin lifts his hand, holding a finger up. "And a bottle from my private stash, a 1850 vintage, will be sent up immediately. A gift for our savior.", he adds.
Soon after, you find yourself back in front of the Prima Donna room. You step inside, and immediately slide the brass bolt into place. You lean your back against the door. For the first time all night, the adrenaline begins to settle.
"I have seen comedies, tragedies, and grand deceptions... but I have never seen a performance quite like the one you gave tonight.", a voice murmurs, vibrating through the room.
The mirror slides open so quickly it suggests Erik was waiting for the moment the door seals shut behind you. He steps into the room, looking at you with pure, unadulterated awe. "You continue to astound me, in plentiful ways.", he says, his voice a melodic hum. You watch him move towards you, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. "The way you handled Mercier... the way you turned the boy's suspicions against him." He stops just inches from you, your back still pressed against the wood of the door. His gaze drops to your lips, a heavy, unspoken intensity hanging between you. "You possess a brilliant, dangerous mind, mon ange.", he whispers, his voice dropping an octave.
Suddenly, a knock sounds behind you. You turn your head slightly, glancing away from Erik for a second.
"Y/N? It’s me." Raoul’s voice calls out, muffled through the heavy oak. You look up at Erik. His eyes are burning with a different kind of intensity, his jaw set in a snarl at the sound of Raoul's voice. You press a finger to your lips, a silent command for Erik to stay quiet. A flicker of genuine puzzlement softens Eriks features, but he obeys. You shift your weight off the door, stepping fully into his space. “What is it?”, you call out, looking up at Erik through your lashes. Your fingers find his hand, setting it on your waist before slowly trailing up his sleeve in a gentle motion.
"I know you asked for calm, and frankly, I had to bribe the managers to let me come here, but I couldn't go back yet." Raoul’s earnest voice filters through the wood. "I’m just... I’m concerned, Y/N. That damned Opera Ghost..."
You look up at Erik, parting your lips in a look of mock shock. A faint smirk tugs at the corner of Erik's lips, a silent sign of amusement at your antics. Encouraged, you let your hands slide across the smooth fabric of his shirt, feeling his heart beating beneath your palms, before hooking your fingers behind his neck.
"Of course it’s you he’s interested in…" Raoul continues, entirely oblivious to what is unfolding inches away from his face. You flash Erik a self-satisfied, smug smirk, your eyes dancing with mischief. A flash of pride ignites in his brown eyes at that.
"I’m afraid you’re being manipulated without even knowing it." Raoul adds, his tone dripping with protective pity. You mimic his concern, knitting your brows. Erik sees the wickedness of your expression, and it delights him. A low, breathy chuckle vibrates in his chest at the sheer audacity of your shared deception. You grin at him, before sliding your fingers into Erik's hair and pulling him down for a kiss.
Erik’s eyes widen as you pull him near. His lips meet yours. The knowledge that his rival is standing right on the other side of the wood, preaching about safety while you are here, like this, with him, sends a thrill through him. Yet the kiss isn’t frantic; it is a slow, sensual exploration that tastes of words unspoken. When a low vibration escapes the back of Erik's throat, you seize the moment to deepen the kiss, letting your tongue slip past his lips for the first time.
The effect is instantaneous. Erik shudders violently against you, his hand snapping to your waist with a sudden, bruising grip. A wave of heat rolls through him, catching him entirely off guard. To desire you cleanly is one thing, but to feel the way his body - one he has spent a lifetime loathing - reacts to you frightens him. Before the panic can completely hijack his mind, you gently pull away to catch your breath.
Eriks forehead rests lightly against yours, his chest heaving as he fights to control his ragged breathing. He looks completely unstrung, caught between the ecstasy of having you near and the agonizing weight of his unworthiness.
Outside, Raoul lets out a heavy, defeated sigh. "...I'll be at the tavern nearby if you change your mind. Please, just be careful. Goodnight, Y/N." The sound of his retreating footsteps finally fades down the corridor.
Erik remains close, his breathing gradually slowing. As he is slowly regaining his ability to form coherent thoughts, his mind wanders back to the rooftop. He wants to know, desperately so, what you were going to say before you were interrupted. Yet, looking at your flushed cheeks and the exhaustion pulling at your eyelids after the events of tonight, he firmly locks the impulse away. He will not push his luck further tonight.
You detangle yourself from him before crossing the room to the vanity, where the heavy glass bottle that Firmin had sent stands. "I told the managers that I am not to be disturbed until well into tomorrow morning.", you say softly, turning back to face him. "Which means we should have quite a bit of time. We could go to your sanctuary, try the wine, and you can show me something you have been working on... if you’d like."
Erik’s chest expands on a sharp, caught breath. If he’d like. His heart swells against his ribs. As if there is any reality in which he wouldn’t. As if you are not offering him everything he has ever dreamed. He looks at you as if he cannot believe his immense fortune, his chest rising and falling in slightly uneven counts. Seeing him so undone by a simple invitation brings a smile to your lips, a rush of affection surging through you.
Before you make the descent, you glance down at the layers of the Countess gown. "I think I’d like to get out of this first." you murmur, turning to face away from him. You glance at him over your shoulder, and move your hair to the side, exposing your neck to him. "Would you mind helping me with the laces?"
Erik freezes for a fraction of a second, swallowing. Then, he steps forward. As a man who has designed and tailored costumes with his own hands, his movements are swift and efficient, yet his fingers tremble against the silk cords. To stand behind you, undoing your stage finery, feels like an act of absolute sanctity. He fights the frantic rhythm of his pulse, keeping his touch cautiously gentle, as if anything else might shatter the trust you've placed in him.
With the laces loosened, you thank him, and step behind the folding velvet dressing screen. Slipped out of the heavy gown and corset, you wrap yourself in a floor-length ivory silk peignoir.
When you step out from behind the screen, Erik is waiting, already holding the bottle of wine so your hands remain free. He offers his arm with old-world gallantry, his posture straight and undeniably proud.
The path down into the subterranean depths feels like a candlelit walkway meant just for the two of you. A sweet, companionable silence settles over you, broken only by the whisper of your silk robe and his quiet steps. Eriks hand holds yours, guiding you with a soft pressure that sends a pleasant shiver through you.
On a the landing just above the dark water of the lake, he slows to a halt. You are turned towards him, the torchlight catching the elegant curve of his mask as he looks down at you. The smallest breath escapes him, his voice dropping into a low, vulnerable hum.
"I never dared to dream that a soul would willingly propose coming here. Simply to be with me.", he murmurs, his eyes locked onto yours. He looks away for a second, his thumb brushing over your hand. "Certainly not one as breathtakingly beautiful as you.", he adds, his eyes finding yours again. The sheer sincerity of the compliment makes you positively melt. Warmth spreads through your chest, and you lean a closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. "You underestimate your own company, Erik.", you reply softly. Your tender reassurance makes his grip on your hand tighten, then he leads you into the boat.
Once inside his candlelit home, Erik disappears for a moment into what appears to be his dining area, returning with two exquisite, heavy crystal goblets.
He leads you over to the velvet settee near the fire. He uncorks the bottle with practiced ease, pouring the deep crimson liquid into the crystals. Turning toward you, he hands you your glass, his fingers lingering against yours for a brief moment.
With attentive care, adjusts a silk tassel cushion behind you. Only after he has ensured you are comfortably settled, he sits down beside you. He sits a little closer than he would have dared before, filling your senses with his scent. Then he lifts his glass, swirls the liquid, tilts it toward the candlelight, and takes a delicate sip. Instantly, his nose wrinkles beneath the edge of his mask, a look of disdain crossing his features.
"Firmin truly is a fool." Erik declares, sniffing the glass. "This 1850 is a disappointment. The idiot has clearly stored it entirely too close to the opera's boiler rooms. It is cooked. Completely flat and unforgivably acidic."
You burst into a soft laugh. "Good heavens, Erik. I didn't realize you are such a wine critic." You tilt your own glass, taking a sip, then shrugging.
An amused smile tugs at his lips, his shoulders relaxing. "When one is forced to live beneath the earth, one must at least maintain some standards." You gesture broadly with your free hand to the luxury surrounding you in the cavernous room. "Clearly." you say, a playful lilt in your voice.
You tilt your head, studying the space before your eyes settle on the massive pipes of the organ. "How on earth did you manage to build all of this down here? The furniture, the artwork... the organ, especially. Did you have help smuggling it in?" Erik looks out over his sanctuary. "A few favors were brokered with Madame Giry in the early days, for raw materials.", he explains, waving a dismissive hand as if constructing a subterranean fortress were a mere weekend chore. "But the rest? The masonry, the assembly of the organ, the very bench we are sitting on... that was entirely my own labor."
The sheer scale of his genius, combined with the raw physical power it must have taken to forge this sanctuary alone beneath the earth, leaves you in awe. You stare at him wide-eyed, completely captivated. “You are remarkable, do you know that?”, you whisper earnestly. The sincerity of your praise shocks him in the best way, yet he genuinely has no concept of how to receive kindness. His gaze immediately drops to his lap, his fingers twitching against the velvet of his trousers. A faint, dark flush creeps up the visible skin of his neck and cheeks as he loses his usually eloquent vocabulary. He looks endearing; the terrifying, brilliant Opera Ghost reduced to a shy, flustered man by a handful of kind words.
A delighted - and perhaps slightly wicked - smile spreads across your lips. The sheer vulnerability of his reaction sparks a delicious, intoxicating thrill in your chest. You lean even closer, putting your free hand over his on his thigh. He looks at your hand in his. "I have got to admit, it does make me feel quite powerful to have a man like you blushing for me.", you say, your voice dropping to a teasing, and frankly, slightly seductive purr.
Erik’s eyes snap back to yours, blown wide with a mixture of shock and sudden, searing heat. His throat bobs as he swallows hard. So you do know the staggering effect you have on him, and you seem to enjoy it tremendously. A low, breathless hum escapes him. The sheer intensity of his gaze sends a flutter straight to your own stomach.
Mentally taking note of all the little ways you seem to be able to drive him right to the edge of his composure, you decide to put him back at ease. You let out a soft sigh and set your crystal goblet down on the low table, shifting your position on the settee to face him fully.
"Come." you say softly, letting your fingers clasp around his hand. "Before I let it all go to my head…”, you begin, smirking at him. “Show me a project of yours. Not music. Something… something I don't know yet."
Erik pauses for a beat, feeling the warmth of your hand on his skin as he considers your request. His eyes dart toward the cluttered, darker corner where his drafting tables are.
Suddenly, a spark of excitement flashes across his features, completely replacing his flustered modesty. He sets his crystal goblet down on the low table, stands, and offers you his hand to help you up. Once you are on your feet, he picks his glass back up, his stride confident as he guides you into the heart of his workshop.
He stops before a long table draped in a velvet cloth. With a swift sweeping motion he flings the fabric away to reveal an intricate model of the stage, built entirely out of wood, brass gears, silver wires, and polished obsidian. "I am designing an illusion for a future production of The Tempest." he explains. You look closer, your eyes widening as you recognize the miniature shoreline, the perfectly carved cave of Prospero, and the delicate wirework holding an ethereal figure aloft. “Shakespeare's island…" you murmur, your eyes tracking the exquisite brass gears beneath the stage floor. "The grand shipwreck in the opening act?"
Erik looks at you, profoundly charmed that you recognized the setting instantly. "Precisely, mon ange. The managers want the standard painted silk waves. I intend to create a true tempest; a cascading illusion of light and moving fog that will make the audience believe the theater itself is sinking into the Atlantic." He turns a tiny silver crank on the side, and the miniature stage comes alive. The tiny brass waves ripple in perfect sync, but the fog - produced by a hidden chamber beneath the stage - seems to scatter at the edges.
"It is... unfinished." Erik murmurs, his brow furrowing as he leans against the edge of the heavy table. He moves to get a second wooden chair, gesturing for you to sit beside him, so your shoulders almost touching. "The mechanism is mathematically perfect, yet the mist clings too heavily to the stage floor instead of swirling with the fury of a real storm. I am not entirely satisfied with it yet." He glances at you sideways, a silent, hopeful invitation for you to look at the problem with him.
You lean over the model, your ivory silk robe brushing against his sleeve as you study the of the tiny levers. "The draft pulls it away." you say, more to yourself than to him, your finger tracing a small copper valve near the miniature proscenium. He watches you, captivated as you work out the mechanism of the scenery. You study the tiny levers and the placement of the miniature scenery, your finger gently tracing a small, jagged rock formation. "Erik, what if you didn't change the machinery at all? What if you curved the landscape of the shoreline? If the rocks slope inward…”Erik's breath hitches. He looks from your finger to the miniature shoreline, his eyes wide as the simplicity and brilliance of the idea takes root. "…The draft catches the mist and force it to spiral around the ship.", he finishes in a whisper, a slow, radiant smile breaking across the visible side of his face. "Using the architecture itself as the conduit. If I carve the channels to match the curve of the rocks, the momentum would double..." He sets his glass down, instantly pulling out a charcoal pencil and a heavy sheet of parchment. For the next hour, the weight of the night completely evaporates. Time loses its meaning as the two of you lose yourselves in the beautiful, complex world of mechanics and illusion. You lean over the drawings together, your voices a steady, animated murmur against the quiet crackle of the fireplace.
Erik is entirely in his element; nonchalant, brilliant, throwing out structural concepts and drafting adjustments with effortless grace. His facial expression is one of vibrant passion that makes him look utterly magnificent.
Eventually, Erik turns his head, realizing that for the past several minutes, you haven't been looking at the brass gears or the charcoal sketches at all. You have been staring directly at him, your gaze soft and filled with a warmth he can’t quite place.
He cuts himself off mid-sentence. "Y/N?" he whispers softly, his voice dropping into a vulnerable, questioning thread.
A soft, shuddering breath escapes your lips. In the quiet safety of his world, surrounded by his brilliant mind and his bottomless devotion, you let the absolute truest thing you know slip past your lips.
𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖑, pt. 16
phantom of the opera x reader
AN: Soooooo two important things: this chapter contains probably a lot of topics that could be triggering (tw: trauma, flashbacks, murder, see chapter overview for full list); aaaand on a more lighthearted note thank you guys so much for all the kind comments. It's been ages since I last wrote fanfics (or anything, really), and I literally just thought I'd write this bc it's my current obsession. Never expected that quite so many others would enjoy it, so I'm really glad!! x
Word count: 4530
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜
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16 - 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕻𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖚𝖑𝖚𝖒
The rest of the day is a blur of frantic, grinding theater life. The Opéra Populaire is a machine that never stops, even when its gears don’t quite feel like turning anymore.
You are no longer the Countess. You are relegated to the role of the Pageboy; a decorative shadow that exists only to make the Countess look more grand. The transition from the Prima Donna room to the cramped corner of the communal dressing room you are currently occupying is jarring. But what bothers you most is not smell of cheap powder and the sweat of thirty other dancers, but the fact that your very own gateway to him is gone.
Rehearsals for Il Muto are a special kind of hell. You spend hours inches away from Carlotta, following her like a dog while she shrieks her way through the score. She takes every opportunity to make your life difficult, demanding "more grace" from her Pageboy, or "accidentally" stepping on your feet during the blocking.
During a break, you find yourself cornered by Julian. "A bit of a demotion, isn't it?" Julian murmurs, leaning against a prop tree with a mocking smirk. He eyes your form in the Pageboy tunic. You don't even look at him as you adjust your cuffs. „So? I don’t require the lead to be motivated to perfect a role as much as I can.“, you retort, stepping past him with cool authority. „Though I still think silence suited you quite well.“ He opens his mouth, his eyes narrowing to slits. You cut him off before he can speak more, pointing your fingers to the rafters before you smirk at him over your shoulder. „Did you see that?“, you whisper in a conspitorial tone, earning an anxious look from him.
Not long after, Meg finds you sitting on a crate in the wings, picking at a roll. She looks exhausted, her curls limp from hours of practice. "She’s ruining it.“, Meg whispers, sitting beside you and leaning her head on your shoulder. "She’s pushing her high notes too hard because she’s nervous. She knows damn well the notes weren’t fake.“
„Well then it appears that her arrogance surpasses her fear.“ you reply, shrugging with your free shoulder. "I’m sorry, Y/N. About the room. About the role. It’s not fair.“, Meg hushes.
"It’s alright, Meg," you say, as you shift slightly, leaning back against the wall. "I like being on stage, but it doesn’t matter much to me if I’m doing so as a dancer, the lead, or …basically a prop." At that last part, you mimic one of the ridiculous poses of the pageboy. Meg lifts her head and giggles at your antics.
You pause then, the roll still in your hand as you look out toward the stage. "I just... I don't know what’s going to happen tonight. And as much as I know Erik is a good man-"
Meg’s head snaps towards you once more, her eyes wide and dancing with a sudden, sharp light. You stop abruptly, your heart leaping into your throat. To let his name slip past your lips so carelessly feels like a betrayal of the privacy he guards so fiercely, a crack in the fragile foundation of trust you’ve earned. You shoot Meg a look in a silent plea for her to keep that name buried.
"The point is," you add, your voice a barely audible breath, "I don't think it’s smart for the managers to find out exactly what he means by a 'disaster' in front of a sold-out house.”
By the time evening arrives, the auditorium is a sea of glittering jewels. The most beautiful and rich people of Paris have arrived in droves, whispered rumors of the Opera Ghost’s threats only serving to sell more tickets: People love a tragedy, as long as it isn't their own.
In the dressing room, the wardrobe mistress cinches the belt of your Pageboy costume. Midnight blue velvet with silver embroidery. It makes you look lithe, boyish, and elegant. As you make your way to the stage, Carlotta brushes past you. She stops next to you for a second, looking you up and down with a sneer. "Watch and learn, gutter rat."
Before you can react the curtain parts. The stage is full of pastels and props. Carlotta is in her element immediately, preening as the Countess, surrounded by the ensemble. When the cue for the Pageboy arrives, you step into the light. Your eyes drift upward, searching for the familiar void of Box Five.
It isn't empty.
Monsieur André, Monsieur Firmin, and Raoul are sitting there in plain sight, their expressions somewhere between defiant and scared. You have to fight the urge to sigh, or roll your eyes. What are they thinking?
The music swells. You can feel the vibration of it beneath your feet. But there’s something else. It‘s him. The air in the theater begins to thrum with a low-frequency rage. You can practically feel Erik fuming in the darkness as he witnessed his instructions tossed aside like scrap paper. The ensemble begins to sing, their voices bright and mocking:
They say that this youth has set my lady’s heart aflame
His Lordship sure would die of shock
His Lordship is a laughing stock
Should he suspect her lord protect her: Shame shame shame
The play moves forward in all its over-the-top glory.
"Seraphimo, your disguise is perfect!" Carlotta sings, her voice trilling with a forced vibrato.
The husband exits the stage, and you step toward Carlotta. Your movements are graceful and precise as you play the silent, smitten boy.
"You cannot speak, but kiss me in my husband's absence!" she commands in song. She pulls you close, her grip on your shoulder a bit too tight, her breath smelling of peppermint and booze. You lean in, “kissing” her behind the fan she waves around.
Oh, how much you hate this opera.
Carlotta pulls back, lets out a triumphant laughter, and continues:
Poor fool, he makes me laugh!
Haha, Haha, Ha’
Time I tried to get a better better half!
Poor fool, he doesn't know!
Hoho, Hoho, Ho’
If he knew the truth, he'd never, ever, ever go!
Suddenly, a voice like rolling thunder cracks through the auditorium. It doesn't come from the stage, or the rafters. It comes from everywhere.
"DID I NOT INSTRUCT THAT BOX FIVE WAS TO BE KEPT EMPTY?"
In Box Five, Monsieur André and Monsieur Firmin spring to their feet so violently that André nearly topples his chair into the lap of a startled socialite in the row behind. Raoul stands as well, his hand gripping the velvet railing as he scans the rafters with a protective and determined gaze.
"You ignore my instructions.", the voice thunders again, "You insult my protégée." A slight blush comes to your cheeks that you hope the stage makeup covers. The audience erupts into whispers and gasps. The "Opera Ghost" was no longer a myth to be giggled at over champagne; he was a presence, and a menacing one at that.
"He's here," Meg breathes looking around the auditorium. "The Phantom of the Opera."
"It's him," you whisper, the words catching in your throat. You can feel the electric charge of his proximity, a heat that seems to radiate from the shadows.
Carlotta turns her head slightly toward you. "Your part is silent, little toad!" she hisses, then turns back to the audience with an innocent smile.
"A toad, madame?" Erik’s voice returns, dripping with disdain. "Perhaps it is you who are the toad..."
Carlotta’s smile falters for a fraction of a second. She clears her throat, and goes to get her mouth sprayed, before waving her hand at the conductor. "Maestro, da capo, per piacere!"
She takes a deep, theatrical breath, her chest heaving as she prepares to reclaim her stage.
Poor fool, he makes me laugh! Haha, Haha, CROAAAK!
The sound is hideous. It is a wet, guttural rasp that does not fit the voice of a soprano. A dark, spiteful comes seems to come from the ceiling. Despite the absurdity and the cruelty of it, your heart flutters at the sound.
The audience gasps in a collective sound of shock. Carlotta freezes, her eyes wide as she clutches her neck. She clears her throat with a violent sound and tries again, her face beginning to flush.
Poor fool, he doesn't know! Hoho, Ho— CROOAAAAK.
The laughter is no longer just Erik's. It starts in the back of the gallery and spreads like wildfire through the stalls. Carlotta’s face flushes crimson of pure humiliation. She looks around the stage desperately, her eyes landing on you. This is cruel, yes. But after how she treated you, you don’t find it in your heart to offer her comfort. You simply meet her gaze, one eyebrow arching in a slow, deliberate movement as a small half-smirk touches your lips.
She tries once more, her voice a desperate shriek that never quite forms a note. The croaking sound comes earlier this time, louder and more violent, drowning out the strings of the orchestra.
CROAAAK!
People in the stalls are pointing, some clutching their sides as La Carlotta is reduced to a swamp creature.
Up in Box Five, the managers look like they are in the midst of simultaneous heart attacks, their faces pale and sweaty. Raoul stands at the edge of the box, his knuckles whitening. He is trying to maintain a facade of calm and composure, but the frantic scanning of his eyes betrays him. Every time Erik’s voice booms, Raoul’s expression darkens. To him, Erik calling you his protégée sounds like a claim of ownership. His suspicion is no longer a flicker, but a spreading fire. He is convinced you are a prisoner, manipulated by the Opera Ghost.
Beside him, André and Firmin now exchange a series of whispers. Finally, André nods sharply and slips out of the box. Firmin steps to the very edge of the velvet ledge, his voice amplified by the expectant quiet of the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he begins, his voice wavering slightly. "We apologize for the... interruption. The performance will continue in ten minutes' time, when the role of the Countess will be played by Miss Y/F/N Y/L/N.”
The curtains sweep shut with a heavy thud. Before you can even process the shift, Madame Giry’s hand is firm on your arm, pulling you toward the wings. Meg follows closely behind with quick footsteps. As you are hurried away, André’s voice echoes from behind the curtain, desperately trying to distract the disgruntled audience:
"Meanwhile, we'd like to give you the ballet from Act…Three of tonight's opera!"
In the dressing room, Madame Giry and Meg make quick work of the silver-embroidered velvet, stripping the Pageboy persona away. In its place, they begin to layer the elaborate Countess gown; heavy silks, intricate lace, and a corset that gives no Choice but to have a regal posture. To your luck, there is no time for the towering, powdered wig that usually accompanies the role. Your own hair will have to suffice, pinned up in a hurry.
You look into the mirror and can’t deny the nerves that you’re feeling. You know Erik. And frankly, you doubt that rendering Carlottas performance into that of a frog was all he meant by the consequences he wrote about.
That was likely just the overture.
Madame Giry catches your eye in the mirror and lets out a weary sigh. She knows exactly where your mind is. Without a word, she reaches into the folds of her black cloak and produces a single, perfect red rose.
"I was asked to give you this," she says, her voice as level as ever, though her eyes soften for a fraction of a second.
Meg looks from her mother to the rose, her jaw dropping slightly. She sees the silent understanding between you and her mother, and her quiet acceptance of your connection to the man in the shadows.
The rose is cool against your skin, its scent a grounding anchor in the chaos. That Erik found the time to deliver this - amidst his busy schedule of, well, threats and theatrical sabotage - is touching to you. You carefully tuck the rose into your bodice, the petals peeking out against the ivory silk.
You turn to the two women who stand by you. "Thank you," you whisper. "Both of you." If there were time, you’d pull them both into a hug, but the orchestra is already transitioning out of the ballet music. Meg squeezes your hand, her eyes bright with a mix of fear and excitement. "Go," Madame Giry commands, her tone strict but beneath it, something caring. "Show them why he chose you."
You turn and head toward the stage, the heavy silk of your skirts whispering against the floorboards.
The curtain parts once more.
Raoul and the managers are still in Box Five, perched like nervous birds. But as soon as you begin to sing, any whispers in the auditorium are put to a halt. In mere seconds, the audience seems to have forgotten all that happened just minutes before. Hundreds of eyes are mesmerised, following your every more.
But on stage, right beside you, Julian is a shadow of his former self. As the Pageboy, he is forced to be near you, but you notice the caution with which he moves. He barely meets your eyes, his gaze darting toward the darkness of the wings every few seconds. You yourself can feel the atmosphere. The air is charged - as if a thunderstorm is approaching - in a way that makes the fine hairs on your neck stand up.
As you move through the blocking, you notice something in the shadows high above the stage. Joseph. He is up there, creeping along the catwalks. He is looking for him. Hunting.
You feel your heartbeat speeding up beneath the ivory silk of your bodice. You try to feel the music, focusing on what Erik taught you as you sing. You don’t want to alarm the audience further. And despite your lack of enthusiasm for the role, you are doing incredibly well, giving a performance that is downright perfect.
Yet your eyes keep drifting upward. At one point, during a turn, you catch it: a flicker of a greyish white amidst the ropes and pulleys. The mask. God, you can only hope he sees Joseph first.
You hold the last note of the aria, a crystalline crescendo that fills the dome of the Opéra. But as the sound begins to subside, the applause never comes.
Instead, there is a sickening, wet crack. The sound echoes through the silence like a gunshot. Then come the screams; sounds of terror that start in the front row and ripple through the whole audience. You whirl around, your heavy skirts flaring, and look up to see Joseph Buquet’s body dangling in the air before you.
Another snap of the rope sends him plummeting further, the hemp groaning under his weight. Then, with a final, violent thud, he crashes onto the stage floor mere feet away from you. The sight is visceral. One leg is contorted at an angle that defies human anatomy, and his eyes are wide, staring at the ceiling he was just patrolling.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please!" Monsieur Firmin’s voice calls from Box Five, cracking with fear. "Remain in your seats! Do not panic! It was an accident... simply an accident!"
It is to no avail.
The stage erupts into chaos. Dancers are bolting for the wings; stagehands are shouting; the audience is desperately trying to reach the exits.
You stand perfectly still. The world has gone quiet, the noise of the theater muffled as if you’ve been plunged underwater. Your eyes are glued to Joseph's broken form.
You knew Erik was capable of this. You knew he has killed before. But seeing a life snuffed out right before you... your hands begin to tremble.
Suddenly, two hands grip your upper arms. You are spun around to face Raoul. He looks concerned and his lips are moving, but it takes a moment for the sound to reach you.
"Are you alright? Y/N, look at me!"
"Yes," you hear yourself answer, the word feeling foreign in your mouth. Your heart feels like it keeps speeding up as people rush pash you, screams and footsteps everywhere.
You pull back, twisting out of his grip with a sudden, desperate need for space. "I just... I need some air."
"Y/N, wait—"
"Leave me alone! Please!" you snap, turning on your heel. You push through the fleeing dancers, ignoring the calls of the managers, and rush toward the service stairs.
You burst through the door and onto the roof of the Opéra. The clean sting of the winter air hits your face, and you feel like you can breathe again. Snow is falling, coating the Paris skyline in a false shroud of peace. You move towards the edge of the roof, your breath still hitching in your chest. You lean against the cold stone of a gargoyle, closing your eyes, but the silence up here only seems to make the sound louder.
The crack.
It was the same sound.
That sickening, final snap of bone that haunts your memory. You are back on the streets of Paris, years ago. The air was just as cold then, but you were dressed in rags, not layers of silk.
He had followed you for three blocks. A man with sour breath and big hands. He had cornered you in an alleyway, his shadow looming large against the brick.
He got too close. He pinned you against the wall. His hand was on your waist, sliding lower.
You were still a child.
You had shoved him, with everything you had. He had stumbled, his boot catching on a loose cobblestone, and he fell backward.
CRACK.
He hadn't screamed.
He had just gone still. His neck was bent at an impossible, contorted angle.
You had stood over him in the dark, your hands trembling, just as they are now. You hadn't meant to kill him. And frankly, you had come to terms with it as much as you could. Yet you can’t deny that the knowledge of it had changed the color of your world.
You open your eyes, the Paris skyline blurring behind a veil of tears. The silence of the roof is absolute, save for your own breathing and distant, muffled sirens. Then, the air behind you shifts, bringing you back into the present moment.
Erik.
He stops several paces back, a black silhouette against the swirling white of the snow. He approaches with heartbreaking caution, moving as if you were a wounded bird that might vanish forever if he comes too close. The bravado of the Opera Ghost has vanished, replaced by fear. He is convinced that in his quest to protect you, he has finally, irrevocably, become the monster even an angel like you won’t tolerate.
"I knew they would fail you," he begins, his voice a low whisper that barely carries over the wind. "I knew they would force my hand." You turn your head slightly, glancing at him over your shoulder. His gaze has dropped to the lead of the roof, his shoulders are hunched. The hand not hidden by his cloak trembles. "What you saw... what I did..." He chokes on the words, the shame of his nature catching up.
You turn around fully.
He sees the staggering beauty of you in the moonlight, the embroidery of your gown catching the snowflakes, and the blood-red rose still tucked firmly against your heart. But then he sees the tears, the silver tracks of grief on your cheeks, and it devastates him. He has lost you.
"Y/N..." he breathes, the name a broken prayer. "No…“
You stand frozen for a moment, taking in the sight of him. This is the man Paris fears, the one whose name is whispered with trembling lips. He has just confessed to taking a life - because of you, for you. It isn't moral, and it certainly isn't "right" by any standard of the law. Yet as you look at him, you feel no pity for Joseph Buquet.
Instead, you feel an overwhelming surge of understanding. You see the raw terror in Eriks eyes, not of the gallows, but of you. He is terrified that by showing you the monster, he has burned the bridge to the only person who ever saw the man. You take a step towards him. Then another one. You start running, as much as the space on ceiling allows.
Erik braces himself, his posture stiffening as he is waiting for the blow, or the finality of you running past him, for good. Instead, you collide with him, your arms wrapping around his torso, burying your face in the cold velvet of his cloak. A few ragged breaths and sobs escape you, the sound muffled by his chest. The air leaves Erik in a long, shaky exhale. His arms remain frozen for a split second before they snap shut around you, pulling you into an embrace so tight it is as if he’s not planning to ever let go again.
"I saw him.“ you mumble into the fabric. "He was coming for you... hunting you down like an animal." You pull back enough to look at his face, another tear escaping you. „I don’t know what I would have done if he...“, you trail off, eyes fixed on the snow on his cloak, the whites flakes turning transparent against the warmth of him. You only now realize the sheer truth of your words. You don’t want to lose him. You can’t.
His hand gently reaches up to your face, making you look up at him. He carefully wipes the tear from your cheek. He shakes his head slowly, a pained smile touching the corner of his mouth. "You should be running from me.“, he murmurs, yet he continues holding you. "Not fearing for my life." He pauses, and lets his eyes travel over your face.
"Joseph was not the first.“, he says, his tone turning colder. "There have been others sent to find me. But him… I could not forget the way he looked at you, Y/N. The way he watched the others." He pauses, his eyes drifting down, then finding yours again. „I killed a man tonight. I would kill a hundred more if they threatened you.“ You hold his gaze, unwavering.
„Still… I have tarnished the place you call home.“, he concludes, his voice dropping to a somber whisper. "I have stained your world with the very things I had promised myself to keep away from you."
He looks at you then, unaware that the shadow he fears he has cast upon you is one you have walked in long before you ever heard his voice.
"Erik…“ you say, your breath misting in the cold between you. "My world was stained long before you ever stepped foot in it." You see a flicker of relief and confusion in his eyes. As the sirens wail closer from the streets below, and then come to a halt, you know there is no time to explain the ghosts of your own past. You reach up, your fingers trembling slightly as you carefully cradle his face. This time, he doesn't catch your wrists. He doesn't flinch. He simply stands there, surrendering to your touch.
"You didn't bring the dark.“, you murmur, your thumbs tracing his cheeks, right below the edge of his mask. "Contrary to what you believe... you brought the color back. You brought the music." He leans into your palms, his breathing shallow. As he closes his eyes, a glint of moisture catches the moonlight at the corner of his eye. His entire being seems to vibrate with relief.
You lean in, pressing your lips to his. He lets out a soft, broken sound as his fingers tangle in your hair. His palm cradles the back of your head with a reverence that borders on worship. His other hand presses firmly against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him as if he could merge your heartbeats into one. You sigh against his lips, the terror of the night melting away. There’s nothing raw or claiming about this kiss. It is a quiet surrendering of souls, a promise made on a snowy rooftop.
When you pull apart, your foreheads remain pressed together, your souls suspended in the quiet of the night. You move away just enough to look at him, and slowly open your eyes. His mask is slightly crooked, his hair disheveled by the wind. He slowly opens his eyes, and they are filled with a devotion so absolute it makes your chest ache. In this frozen moment, the horror of the evening has momentarily faded, replaced by the realization that you belong to him, in the light and in the dark.
“Erik…“, you breathe, and see his gaze traveling from your lips to your eyes. A shuddering breath escapes you. „I-…“
The sound of frantic voices echo from the stairwell, cutting you off. Erik’s body tenses instantly, the predatory glare returning to his eyes. You quickly detangle yourself from him. "Go," you hiss, pushing against his chest lightly. "I’ll handle it.“
He starts to protest, his hand reaching for yours. „Go!“, you repeat, and he is struck by the realization of what you are doing. You aren't just forgiving him for a sin that should absolutely not be forgiven. You are shielding him. You are standing between him and the consequences that follow the ugliest parts of him. For a split second, your willingness to be his accomplice seems to paralyze him, before he curtly nods and vanishes into the darkness.
You whirl around, facing the Paris skyline just as Erik made it behind a looming stone gargoyle. The door bursts open, and Raoul - followed closely by the panting figures of the managers - stumbles onto the roof. "Y/N!" Raoul’s voice is a frantic cry. He is at your side in an instant, his hands fluttering over your arms as he searches your face. "Thank God. Are you alright? Are you hurt? We didn’t… We didn’t know where you went."
"I'm okay, Raoul.“ you say, letting your voice tremble. "It was too much in there. I just needed to breathe."
"Come here.“ he says, his arm wrapping around your shoulder protectively. "It's freezing, and you’re trembling. Let's get you inside."
You let him lead you away, playing the part of the damsel in distress, though every fiber of your being wants to look back.
Behind you, hidden in the shadows of the stone and the swirling snow, Erik watches. He feels an agonizing twist in his chest as he sees the boy lead you away into the light. He feels the bite of the winter air more sharply now that your warmth is gone. He stands alone in the dark, the echo of your kiss still burning on his lips, watching as his angel disappears, carrying the secret of his sins.
𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖑, pt. 15
phantom of the opera x reader
Word count: 3680ish
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜
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15 - 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖎𝖛𝖆 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕹𝖔𝖇𝖔𝖉𝖞
The mechanism of the mirror clicks into place, and his knees give way instantly.
She kissed me.
He collapses against the wall of the passageway, the velvet of his cloak pooling around him.
She kissed me.
He leans his head to the side, feeling the cool stone on his temple.
She kissed me…
His breathing is shaky, and his ribs feel far too small to contain the riot of his heart.
…and she did not die.
His hand travels upward, trembling violently, until his fingers brush the skin of his lips. He could still feel the phantom heat of you, the softness that had dared to press against his ruin.
He knows he should not linger here, watching the lightheaded, dazed smile on your face through the one-way glass of the mirror. It is voyeurism, an intrusion. But he feels pinned down by the weight of the events of the day. His mind, the greatest architect and the cruelest tormentor, begins to replay the evening with the obsessive precision of the master composer he is.
He sees you again as you first appeared: a vision in deep red. The dress that hugged your waist, your heaving chest in that wicked neckline. Then, your red lips - slightly parted, so full, so soft. Then way you looked had been a provocation he wasn't prepared for.
He had tried so desperately to be good, proper, distant - as much as he could, anyway. To let the lesson be enough sustenance for a starving man.
But then, as his fingers - those wretched, scarred tools of his trade - had slipped, and you had to be kind. And you had to sing with him, your warm and honey-coloured eyes holding his. At the memory of your voices entwining, a broken sob hitches in his chest. A single hot tear tracks a path beneath the edge of his mask, followed quickly by another. He had felt the music vibrate through his very marrow. Your souls had braided together in a way that - if only he wasn’t so bitter - would make him believe in a God. As you had held that final note, soaring above his own baritone, he had felt himself dissolve. In that moment, you were the only thing in his universe.
And then, you moved.
He can still feel the sensation of your delicate hands, tracing the line of his chest and neck. The thought makes him shudder even now, his shoulder racking against the cold stone. He clenches his eyes shut, his hands clawing at the velvet of his own thighs. He can still feel the warmth of your palms, utterly unafraid of the monster they were mapping.
And then, then you had pressed your lips to his.
You kissed him.
He had died and gone to heaven. He had tasted mercy, and the agonizing fear that it was all a hallucination. He had waited for your regret, for the moment you realized your mistake and pulled away. But God, you had only kissed him again.
With a passion that had nearly unstrung him.
For the first time in his life, the Great Architect of the Opera House felt he was losing control, his carefully constructed walls dissolving into ash under your touch. It scared him to his very bones... and yet, it felt destined, more right than any symphony he had ever written. He presses his own fingers to his lips, his breathing coming in shallow, silent hitches. He had dreamt this a thousand times, but this?
This. Feels. Real.
The scent of your skin, the sweetness of your breath, the way your body had leaned into his. When he had stood there afterward, dazed and lost in the wake of his dream coming true, you had handled him with celestial grace. You led him to the fire, and you kissed him a third time.
Each touch was a piece of evidence, a mounting trial against his own self-loathing. You acted as if you didn't just tolerate his presence, but as if you sought his proximity. You had scooted closer to him, voluntarily. As if he weren't a creature born of the cold and the dark.
But the final blow to his defenses had been finding himself in the sketchbook, in the hidden parts of your wonderful and brillant mind. You had deemed him worthy of art. You had seen the jagged lines of his soul and chosen to capture, and to keep them.
And even then, you had stayed close. To him.
She kissed me.
She kissed me and she stayed.
He remains there, slumped against the masonry of his secret world, listening to the fading sounds of your movement in the room next to him. He is utterly shaken, a man who has lived his whole life in the shadows suddenly thrust into the beautiful, but blinding sun.
He knows he will not sleep tonight. He cannot. He is terrified that if he closes his eyes, if he allows his consciousness to drift for even a second, the veil will drop. He fears he will wake up in the freezing dark of his solitude and find that it was all imaginary - just another cruel masterpiece composed by his own desperate heart.
________
You wake slowly the next morning, your eyes barely adjusting to the light cast through the heavy velvet curtains. For a moment, you lay still, your eyes drifting to the golden mirror. It stands silent and impenetrable, a far cry from the gateway it had been hours before. Erik isn’t there.
Just as you sit up, your legs dangling off the side of the bed, a frantic knock at the door pulls you out from the memories of last night.
"Y/N! Are you decent? I’m coming in!"
Before you could even reach for your robe, Meg bursts into the room, her curls bouncing and her eyes dancing with a manic sort of energy. She is carrying a tray with two small cups, a jug of chocolate and some rolls, but sets it down with such force the porcelain rattles.
“Ohh, today is going to be a day," she says, her voice a hushed squeal. „Not only are there rumors that the great Carlotta is to make her grand return today," Meg begins, her voice dropping as she pours the chocolate, "but also; you have something to tell me." She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, leaning in so close you could smell her flowery perfume. "Well? How did it go?"
The memory of sitting together in front of the hearth, and the devastating softness of his lips, has an unstoppable smile spreads across your face. Meg’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. "Oh! Something did happen! Y/N, you-…“
"WHERE IS SHE? WHERE IS SHE?“
A piercing, glass-shattering shriek from the hallway cuts Meg off, followed immediately by a violent crashing sound of what no doubt is the huge ceramic vase meeting the floorboards.
The sounds echo through the walls of your dressing room, effectively killing the cozy atmosphere. You let out a long, weary sigh and roll your eyes. While Meg is practically vibrating with the need to see what the fuss is about, you take your time with another deliberate bite of your roll. You move to the mirror, adjusting a few stray locks of hair and pulling your silk robe tighter around you. There is no need to rush, the drama surely is not going anywhere.
"Come on, Y/N!" Meg hisses, her hand white-knuckled on the doorknob.
When you finally step out into the corridor, the air feels different. It is thick with the scent of expensive, cloying perfume - her signature smell. But beneath that, you feel a familiar pull. Erik is here. He must have been watching the situation unfold from the shadows.
In the center of the hallway, a chaotic tableau unfolds. Carlotta stands there, face reddened with rage, flanked by the two managers, who look overwhelmed. Both André and Firmin are clutching pieces of parchment, but it appears the one in Carlotta’s hand seems to be the source of the outrage.
The moment Carlotta spots you and Meg exiting the Prima Donna’s room, her gaze snaps to you, burning with pure, unadulterated hatred. "Ah, the little rat emerges from her hole," Carlotta spits, her voice trembling with a venomous edge. "Dressed in silk she did not earn, occupying a room that is not hers.“
You don’t flinch. In fact, you don’t even give her the satisfaction of reacting at all. Your expression is a mask of professional detachment as you turn your gaze to the managers.
„Good morning Monsieur André, Monsieur Firmin," you say in a steady and remarkably calm voice. „Did something happen?“
Carlotta’s eyes bulge, her chest heaving against the tight constraints of her gown. She lets out a sharp, mocking huff.
"Are you truly this dense?“, she snarls, stepping into your personal space. She waves the parchment in her hand so violently it whistles through the air. "Do not play the innocent with me, cretina!"
You watch her hysterics with a blank expression, then shift your gaze from her reddened face to that of the managers. Monsieur Firmin clears his throat, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else - perhaps even in the middle of a cholera outbreak - right now. He avoids Carlottas eyes, twisting his own note between his fingers.
"Y/N, my dear," he begins, his voice strained and weary. "There have been... several communications this morning. From the Opera Ghost. It appears he has taken a most particular interest in your career." He gestures vaguely to the paper. "He has given clear instructions that you are to remain in the lead.“
Carlotta lets out a sharp, jagged laugh, her chest heaving. "Instructions, Monsieur? He has threatened me!" She snaps the parchment one again, the fibers straining. "He says my days here are numbered! He says I should be prepared for a 'great misfortune' should I attempt to take her place!" She points a trembling, gloved finger at you, her face twisted with a level of disgust that would be comical if it weren't so venomous. "Her! A lanky ballet rat!“
The managers turn to look at you, their eyes wide with a mix of pity and panic. They expect the situation to escalate further. But instead, you remain perfectly still, meeting Carlotta’s rage with a stare so cold it seems to drop the temperature in the hallway by several degrees.
"Signora, you may find comfort in knowing that I never had much of an interest in being Prima Donna.“, you say, your voice carrying an effortless nonchalance. There is an honesty in your tone that even the managers can’t deny; you were not hunting for fame. You were simply there when Carlotta wasn’t.
„Do you expect us to believe this?“, Carlotta scoffs, her eyes darting around the hall as if looking for someone to witness your „lies“. „This was not the Opera Ghost! It is a ploy. A scheme to keep you in my place while you play the part of the modest little doll.“
You tilt your head slightly, your expression remaining a mask of professional detachment. "And who exactly do you suppose has written these, then?"
Just then, the rhythmic clicking of a cane echoes against the stone floors as Madame Giry appears, the Vicomte de Chagny beside her. Raoul looks sophisticated as per usual, his brow furrowed as he takes in the shattered vase and the hysterical diva.
Carlottas gaze snaps toward the end of the corridor, her face twisting into a predatory smile. "The Vicomte! Your patron, of course!" she bellows. "Tell us, Monsieur, how many nights has she spent in your bed to earn her place? How much are you paying to ruin my career so your lover can keep her stolen crown?"
Beside you, Meg lets out a tiny gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. Raoul freezes, his face flushing a deep crimson. "Signora, watch your tongue! You speak of a lady’s honor!"
You feel an icy draft, a sharp tension in the air. Erik is there, hidden in the architecture of these halls. You can only practically feel his rage at Raoul trying to protect your honor and - above all - the suggestion that Raoul lies with you.
You roll your eyes, the gesture so dismissive it may have been more insulting than a slap. You don't even feel the need to address the accusation; as Meg had gleefully informed you, your blatant refusal of the Vicomte’s advances was the talk of the house.
Raoul looks at you, a flicker of genuine hurt crossing his handsome features before he turns back to Carlotta. His tone is heavy with a sad, reluctant honesty. "I assure you, Signora Carlotta, what you imply is false. Y/N is a remarkable woman, far too principled to be swayed by a title, as she has made quite clear to me on several occasions." The way he says it has you almost pity him, but you remain a statue of cold indifference. "Furthermore," Raoul continues, reaching into his pocket, "I have something else to prove it.“ He hands a small, crisp piece of parchment to Monsieur Firmin The manager reads it aloud, his voice trembling.
"Vicomte de Chagny, remain distant from Miss Y/L/N.
Your persistence is a nuisance I will no longer tolerate.
Should you ignore this demand I shall see myself forced to remove the obstacle you represent."
Carlotta huffs, her chest heaving as her gaze darts from Raoul’s wounded expression to your calm face. She isn't finished. „If it is not the boy, it is him!" she cries, gesturing vaguely toward the shadows. „The Phantom! You’re his pet!“
Your voice turns awfully cold, cutting through her hysterics like a scalpel. "Your fixation on the idea of sleeping with someone to further your… reputation“, you say, looking her up and down „Says more about your character, Signora, than it does about mine."
A collective, sharp gasp ripples through the hallway. André and Firmin look like they’re trying to swallow their own tongues to keep from laughing, while Madame Giry’s lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. Even Raoul looks stunned by the sheer, unadulterated audacity of your words.
Carlotta’s mouth drops open, her face turning a shade of purple that matches her silks. „YOU!" she shrieks. „YOU ARE SCUM! A GUTTER-RAT! A NOBODY!“
You take a single, deliberate step toward her, closing the distance until your face is inches from hers. You hold her gaze, your eyes hard and unforgiving. "I would much prefer to be nobody," you retort, your voice a low, dangerous hum, "than someone as shallow, bitter, and vain as yourself."
"YOU DARE-...“ Carlotta starts, her hand rising as if to strike.
"I DAMN SURE DARE.“ you cut her off, your posture shifting, ready to knock her out before her hand would even touch you. You can almost feel Erik’s approval vibrating through the floorboards.
Just then, the sharp, authoritative thud of a cane hits the floor. "There is another note.“, Madame Giry says, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. The hallway falls into a sudden silence as everyone turns to her. With a face like carved stone, she reaches into her pocket and hands a fresh, wax-sealed letter to Monsieur Firmin.
The managers exchange a look of pure terror. Firmin breaks the seal and again reads aloud:
„Gentlemen,
I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theatre is to be run.
You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance.
La Carlotta has returned, yet I am anxious for Miss Y/L/Ns career to progress.
In the new production of Il Muto, you will therefore cast Carlotta as the page boy.
And keep Miss Y/L/N in the role of Countess. The role which Miss Y/L/N plays calls for charm and appeal.
The role of the page boy is silent which makes my casting, in a word, ideal.
I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five, which will be kept empty for me.
Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.
I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant,
O.G.“
Carlotta’s face, previously purple, has gone a mottled white. The idea of playing a silent page role is a statement that transcends insult. She snaps her gaze to the managers, her eyes wide and pleading. "You would not," she whispers, her voice cracking. "You would not do this to me? Tell me you are not listening to him! Tell me the lead is mine!"
André and Firmin exchange a look of pure helplessness. They are caught between the wrath of a very rich diva - who can afford very good attorneys - and the threat of a "disaster beyond imagination“. Slowly, they both turn their heads to look at you. They are looking for a way out. They are looking for you to be the bigger person so they don't have to be the ones this decision will fall back to.
You meet Firmin’s gaze, your expression one of profound disappointment. You see the cowardice in the set of his jaw, the way he’s practically begging you to step down. You let out a long, slow sigh. "Very well," you say, turning your gaze to Carlotta. Your voice is calm, devoid of the heat that is currently radiating from her. "If you wish to play the Countess in spite of a these warnings, then by all means; take the role. But mark my words, Signora: You are responsible for whatever consequences follow."
Carlotta doesn't even hear the warning. The moment you concede, her vanity rushes back in like a flood. "It is settled then!" she cries, her chest puffing out. She points a trembling finger at the door to the Prima Donna’s suite. "Now, get your things out of my room before I have the stagehands throw them into the Seine!"
You don't give her the satisfaction of a response. You simply turn and walk to do just that. Raoul and Meg both move to follow you, their faces tight with concern, but the sharp clack of Madame Giry’s cane stops them in their tracks. "Meg Giry, are you a dancer?“, she says, „Then go practice.“ Her voice holds no room for arguments, though Meg throws a worried glance back over her shoulder at you.
Inside the room, you snatch up your sketchbook along with the red dress you had draped over the settee. Finally, you reach for Erik’s rose. When you step back into the corridor, Carlotta is waiting like a vulture. You hand her the key without a word. She snatches it from your palm with a sneer and slams the door shut with a violent bang that echoes through the hall.
Only Raoul remains. He stands there, his hands twitching as if he wants to reach out and carry your belongings for you, but he thinks better of it. He knows you well enough by now to know that you would refuse the help.
"Y/N," he begins, his voice soft and genuinely pained. "I am truly sorry. This is... it is a travesty. You earned that role. To let her bully you into the shadows again is not fair." You let out another sigh, but this one is softer. Despite his persistence, Raoul is a kind man, and his defense of you earlier hadn't gone unnoticed. "There is no need to apologize, Raoul.“, you say, looking him in the eye. "Thank you for standing up for me. Even after... everything."
Raoul nods, a flicker of something - hope, perhaps, or lingering hurt - shining in his eyes. But then his gaze drops. He sees the rose in your hand, the deep, blood-red bloom. He wonders if it is his. He has made his interest in you very clear by now, Raoul thinks. But he wonders what that truly means for you. Is he controlling you? Are you his prisoner, somehow?
Before he can voice any of these thoughts, you had turned to leave for the dormitories of the corps de ballet. The scent of the rose trails behind you like a challenge.
𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖑, pt. 14
phantom of the opera x reader
Word count: 3660ish
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜
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14 - 𝕬 𝖘𝖊𝖑𝖋𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕲𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖙
A soft, breathless laugh escapes you, vibrating against his chest. You pull back just enough to look him in the eye, your hands still anchored on his shoulders. "Then be fucking selfish, Erik," you say, your voice fierce.
The word - so blunt, so modern, and so utterly improper - catches him off guard entirely. Erik’s eyebrow shoots up, and he stares at you in a state of stunned silence. For a man who treats language like a sacred score, hearing such a foul word fall from your saintly lips is, at first, a shock. But then, an amused, astonished light dances in the depths of his eyes.
"The world has taken enough from you," you continue, your tone turning serious but no less bold. "It is about time you took something back.“
He lets out a shuddering breath, his head dropping in an attempt to hide the small, disbelieving smile forming on his lips. To be told that what he wishes for is neither impossible, nor a crime, is a crack in the foundation of a life built on the belief that he was born for penance.
You snake your arms around his torso, pulling him into an embrace. As you languidly stroke the broad expanse of his back, your fingers catch on the texture beneath his coat. You feel ridges of uneven flesh that even the fine wool he wears cannot hide. They are the marks of a past written in violence, silent testaments to a lash or an iron. Your brows furrow, and your heart once again aches for him. You take note of them, but you don't ask. Not right now. You simply hold him tighter, as if your warmth could soothe away the scars.
"I have no idea what I am doing." he admits in a voice so quiet it’s barely a rasp. The honesty of it breaks your heart a little. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his brow furrowed in a way that makes him look like a man who is genuinely, hopelessly out of his depth. "I have spent my life wishing to not be alone," he murmurs, his gaze wandering over your face as if trying to memorize the way the candlelight hits your eyes. "I have spent countless nights imagining how it would be if you were here - not because of a lesson - but because..." He trails off, his throat working as he searches for a word that doesn't feel like he is crossing a line he is not allowed to cross. He sighs lightly.
"I have composed entire symphonies to the memory of your scent." he confesses, his voice dropping to a low, melodic hum. "I have imagined you here, beside me, so many times that seeing you now feels like a dream I never want to wake from. I always thought it... impossible. A hallucination of a starving mind. And now that you are here, and I am… this close to you..." He stops, his eyes searching yours with a frantic curiosity. He is clearly wondering what this makes you, but he seems terrified to push his luck by asking.
"I realize I have never considered the 'after,'" he says, his gaze drifting to the vast, shadowy reaches of the lair. "I don't know how to keep you. I don't know if I should ask you to stay in this tomb, or if I should force you back to the light before I ruin you entirely." He looks around the room. To him, it is the closest to a home he has ever had. Now, with you standing in it, he’s terrified it’s just a cage.
"You're overthinking it, Maestro," you say softly, reaching up to smooth the deep-set lines of worry from his brow with your thumb.
"Am I?“ he asks. „I want to be selfish, Y/N. I want you to stay," he says, the words spilling out with a desperate honesty. "I want to watch you sleep. I want to hear you breathing softly in the silence of the night, to know that the world does not steal you the instant I close my eyes." A flicker of shame crosses his features, a hint of a blush creeping up his neck as he realises how pathetic he must sound.
"But if the sun rises and you are not in your room, they will come looking.“ He takes your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles with a reverence that makes you shiver. "I want to lock every door and burn every bridge that leads back to the surface. But I would rather live a hundred years in the darkness without you than make you feel caged, or see you come to harm because of me."
"You are right to be cautious," you say softly, your thumb tracing the line of his knuckles. "I certainly don’t want to be the reason someone finds you here." Erik’s expression softens, a look of relief washing over his features.
"But we should still have a few hours until the sun is up." you whisper, a playful glint returning to your eyes. You shoot him a smirk, and let it soften into a small genuine smile. "I don’t want to leave you. Not yet. Let me stay for another hour or two. Let the world wait a little longer." At your words, Erik feels as though he is soaring. His look is one of raw, unshielded adoration.
"An hour," he says, the word leaving his lips like a vow.
"Very well." you say, giving his hand a small reassuring squeeze. You lead him toward a velvet-upholstered settee positioned near the hearth, the dark fabric slightly worn but luxurious. On the way, you snatch up your sketchbook and his silver-tipped quill, along with a small crystal inkwell.
You settle onto the plush cushions, patting the space beside you. Erik hesitates for a heartbeat before he sinks down, sitting close enough that the heat of his arm radiates against yours.
He watches as you flip the sketchbook open from the back. The rings at the top click softly as you find a fresh, blank page. Erik leans in, his curiosity piqued. When he had looked through your sketches, he had started from the front, assuming the book was „merely“ a repository for your drawings. He hadn't realized that it held more in reverse.
As you begin to write, your handwriting is quick and elegant, detailing the nuances of the messa di voce; the way the breath should be anchored and the precise moment the tone should bloom. Erik watches the quill move. He has always known you were a diligent student, but seeing the level of detail you’re capturing - subtle technicalities he’d only mentioned in passing - stirs something profound in his chest. It is a form of devotion he understands: the worship of the craft.
"The resonance," he murmurs. He reaches out, his finger hovering just above the parchment as he points to a line you've just finished. "You’ve noted it as a shift. But remember, it is a smooth transition. A slow bleeding from the warmth of the chest into the resonance of the facial mask. For the aria in act two, the placement must be against the hard palate." You smirk and look up at him. "Always a perfectionist, Maestro."
"A necessity when one works with such an... evocative instrument." he replies, his voice dropping into a velvety register. "May I?" he asks, his voice a gravelly whisper. You nod and hand him the quill, his fingers grazing yours in the process. With a few swift, masterful strokes, he adds a visual representation of how the sound should swell and taper.
He hands the quill back, but his gaze lingers on the pages you’ve already filled on the back of the sketchbook. He looks at the book as if it were a holy relic. To him, these pages are proof that you haven't just been "attending" his lessons. You’ve been internalizing him, carrying his words, his techniques, and his voice with you.
„Are these all... notes of our lessons?" he asks, gesturing to the stack of pages beneath your hand. His voice is hushed, almost reverent.
"Partially.", you admit softly, knowing well what else these pages hold. Erik is dying to know what else is in there, if there are more notes, or perhaps the fragments of your songs.He wants to see the parts of your mind you haven't yet volunteered.
You set the quill aside, the crystal inkwell catching the light like a diamond. With a soft, deliberate motion, you flip back to the very first page of the reverse section. It is an utter mess of scratched-out measures and tentative lyrics; the early drafts of the song you wrote after the fire.
You hold the book out to him, your fingers lingering on the edges of the parchment. Erik takes the sketchbook with hands that tremble almost imperceptibly. You scoot closer and lean in slightly, until your shoulder rests against his upper arm. You can feel him tense, holding his breath as if afraid to startle you, your proximity desperately wanted but unfamiliar.
First, he finds the drafts of the melody he heard you play in the storage room. His eyes track the staff, humming a few bars under his breath. He sees the crossings-out, the rewrites. To him, they are evidence of a mind that doesn't just play music, but builds it. Then, he encounters more fragments of melodies from your younger years; ghosts of songs that never quite found their end.
As he flips further, he finds the first lesson notes. They are exhaustive. Every metaphor he used, every correction he gave, even the small, throwaway comments about the history of the Paris Opera are recorded there. He finds notes where you’ve clearly read up on musical theory yourself - Zarlino, Rameau - cross-referenced with his teachings. He realizes once again that you aren't just his student; you truly are his peer.
On the next page, he finds the melody you hummed recently. There are no lyrics yet, only a series of haunting notations that feel like an ache transformed into sound. To his expert eyes, the structure is undeniable; it is a song of devotion. He lingers here for a long time, realising the emotional depth.
Finally, he turns another page, and finds the portrait of himself beneath. It is a study of him at the organ, his head tilted back, his hands caught in a moment of creation. You have captured the angle of his jaw and the way the mask sits upon his face.
Erik stares at the portrait for a long, agonizing minute. His eyes, dark and glossy, travel over your every stroke. Nothing is heard but the crackle of the fire. You watch the way the firelight plays over his mask, but it’s the slight tremble of his lower lip, his slightly ragged breathing, that betrays him. The way you painted his own likeness makes him feel as if he is looking at a stranger, or a version of himself he has never been allowed to meet.
"You’re really not used to being seen, are you?" you ask, your voice dropping to a low, tender register that cuts through the quiet. His hands go perfectly still against the sketchbook. "No," he answers, the word sounding torn from a very deep, very dark place. "To be seen... is to be judged. And to be found lacking."
He closes his eyes for a moment, his head bowing over your work. To Erik, the gaze of another has always been a weapon. He knows the lash of disgust or the blade of pity. He is used to being a ghost, not the subject of a gentle study. He sees the way you’ve captured him. The man on the page looks graceful, powerful even. You haven't just drawn him; you have translated his soul into something worthy of being kept.
The realization hits him with more force than the kiss. A kiss might be a moment of fever, a lapse in judgment born of a beautiful melody… But this? This is deliberate. You sat in the quiet of your room and chose him. You spent hours studying him. To Erik, art is the absolute truth. And if you find him worth spending hours drawing him, he has to face the most terrifying possibility of all: That your affection is not a mistake. It is real.
Erik finally lifts his gaze from the portrait. For a moment, he simply looks at you. He sees the warmth in your eyes, the soft flush across your cheeks, and the way you don't flinch as his dark gaze searches yours.
"I’m afraid," you say softly, a corner of your mouth tugging up into a smirk, "I’m going to have to ask you to get used to it." For a fleeting second, the corners of Erik’s mouth twitch in a flash of genuine, startled amusement at your audacity. It is a rare, beautiful thing for him to be surprised by something other than pain.
But as quickly as the light appears, it is shadowed by a familiar grief. In his mind, he has lived a thousand lives where someone truly saw him, only for the dream to dissolve into the cold reality of his solitude the moment the sun rose. He wonders if you know the weight of what you’re promising. He wonders if, when the novelty of this secret passes and the world above calls your name again, you will find this darkness as suffocating as he often does.
He shows very little of this internal storm. There is only a slight tremor in his breath and a tightening of his jaw as he slowly closes the book. "A bold request," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Most find that the more they see of me, the less they wish to stay." He looks back at the fire, the orange light dancing across the porcelain of his mask.
"If you are waiting for me to take something back, you are going to be waiting a very long time," you say, your voice gentle but steady as the stone walls around you.
Erik’s gaze snaps from the fire to your face, the orange glow of the embers reflecting in his dark eyes. He is a man who has lived his entire life waiting - for the scream of horror, or the cold sting of rejection. To be told that you are certain, that you are not going anywhere, seems to stagger him.
"I am not 'most people,' and neither are you," you continue, your voice gaining a soft but immovable strength. You let your hand slide from the settee to cover his, which is still holding the sketchbook. "And I, for my part, am very much fond of that." A low, shaky breath leaves him. He lets go of the sketchbook and turns his hand, entwining your fingers carefully.
Being accepted - perhaps even appreciated - for exactly what he thought makes him loathsome is something he had never thought possible.
He searches your face for any crack in your resolve. Finding none, his expression shifts into something dazed, almost intoxicated by the reality you’re so gracefully forcing him to accept.
"You have a way of making the impossible sound... utterly mundane," he murmurs, his voice a ghost of its usual commanding self. "As if choosing these shadows… a man like me… were as simple as choosing a ribbon for your hair."
You can't help but let out a soft, warm laugh. When you speak again, your tone is calm and steady once more. "Perhaps it is, Erik."
He doesn't argue. He can't. He merely watches you, his throat working as he swallows. Slowly, he reaches out, his bare fingers hesitating for a heartbeat before he brushes a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. The touch is so light, so cautious, as if he expects you to shatter if he presses too hard.
"I find I am at your mercy, Y/N." he breathes, his gaze dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes.
You close the small distance between you a third time tonight, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips. It is a seal, a quiet promise of presence. A violent, involuntary shudder travels down his spine. His hand, still entwined with yours, tightens just enough to feel the pulse in your palm. His eyes flutter closed as he allows himself the impossible reality of your affection.
When you eventually pull back, you do so just enough that you can reach down and slip off your shoes, letting them drop softly to the rug. With the effortless grace of someone who has decided they belong exactly where they are, you swing your legs up onto the velvet settee and lean your head against his shoulder.
Erik stiffens for a fleeting second before he tentatively adjusts his posture to accommodate you. He lets out a long, shuddering sigh, his body finally beginning to uncoil from the tension that usually defines his existence.
The silence that follows is warm and intimate, filled only by the rhythmic crackle of the hearth and the sound of your breathing. For Erik, the world has narrowed down to the feeling of your hand in his and the weight of your head on his shoulder. His mind - the self-loathing, the unearthly melodies, the constant, low-level hum of fear - quiets down to a dull murmur. For the first time in perhaps his whole life, he isn't performing. He isn't the circus attraction, the Master, or the Monster. He is simply a man sitting by a fire with a woman who chose to stay.
He rests his chin atop your head, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames. He doesn't speak, afraid that any sound might shatter the fragile peace of the moment. He simply focuses on the scent of your hair and the grounding heat of your body against his, letting the minutes slip away.
The fire has begun to burn down into a deep, pulsing crimson when Erik finally speaks, his voice so quiet it barely disturbs the air. "You must return," he murmurs against your hair. The words are a reluctant duty to the reality of the world above. Yet, he doesn't move an inch. His hand remains locked with yours, his chin still resting atop your hair as if he could simply freeze time if he stayed still enough. "Yes.", you whisper back, but you remain as you are. If anything, you lean a little further into him.
A few more minutes slip by in that beautiful, stubborn denial. Eventually, Erik lets out a soft sigh and slowly untangles himself from you. He stands, and moves to sink to his knees on the rug before you. With hands that still tremble, he reaches for your shoes. He slides them onto your feet with the focused reverence of a devotee at an altar, his touch lingering on the curve of your heel. You find that there is something profoundly undoing about seeing a man so tall, so imposing, and so feared, kneeling at your feet.
He helps you up after he is finished, his grip on your arm steady and protective as he reluctantly guides you toward the water. The boat ride across the black mirror of the lake is silent, the only sound the rhythmic splash of the oars. He only looks at the water as much as necessary, using as much time as possible to look at you while you are still there.
"After the performance tomorrow," you begin as the boat nudges the shore. "I will come back. As soon as I can slip away without being noticed."
Erik pauses, his hand hovering over the lantern. A diligent, protective part of him knows you will be drained after the show. He should tell you to sleep, to preserve your voice, to stay safe in the light of the upper world, away from him. But the starving part inside him - the one that got to spend almost two hours with your head on its shoulder - is far more convincing at the moment. "You will need rest. But…", he says, then he steps out of the boat and offers you his hand. You step out, too, and look up at him. "I find I am a poor guardian of your well-being when my soul demands your presence. Come to me after your performance, Y/N. I will be waiting."
He leads you through the cold, stone passages until you reach the back of the golden mirror in your dressing room. He watches as the glass begins to shift, the soft light of your room spilling into the dark corridor. He takes your hand one last time, guiding your knuckles to his lips. He pressed a kiss to them and lingers there, eyes closing as he inhales your scent.
"Sleep well, mon ange.", he whispers into your skin. You step through the mirror, the glass clicking shut behind you.
The room feels utterly empty, but your mind is full, replaying certain parts of the evening over and over again. As you move toward your bed, a melody begins to weave through your thoughts. It is the wordless one from your sketchbook, finally finding its voice. You sit at your desk and flip the sketchbook to the designated page. The pen that lay on your desk scratches against the paper as the lyrics pour out of you.
You write until the candle flickers and dies. Before you lay the lyrics to a song that - despite you having composed it - belongs to him as much as it does to you.
𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖑, pt. 13
phantom of the opera x reader
AN: Is Meg basically shipping a little much/ooc? Yes. Do I kinda love it anyway? Yes. Also; I had tremendous fun writing this, so I really really hope you enjoy!
Word count: around 8400 whoops
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜
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13 - 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕬𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖔𝖒𝖞 𝖔𝖋 𝕷𝖔𝖓𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖌
You are halfway to the Prima Donna suite when a frantic rustle of white tulle signals Meg’s approach. "Y/N! Stop, please!" she whispers, grabbing your arm. She intercepts you in the narrow hallway leading to the dressing rooms, her face pale and her eyes darting toward the ceiling as if she expects another sandbag to materialize and fall at any moment. "You have to tell me," she says, her voice trembling. "That... that voice. The way you didn't even blink when Julian almost died. It's him, isn't it? Your 'mysterious tutor'... he's the Ghost. He's the one everyone is terrified of." She searches your face, her grip on your arm tightening. "Are you seeing him, Y/N? Really seeing him? Or is he… a voice in your head?“ Meg means well, and she is a sweetheart, but you can’t help letting out a roll of your eyes at her expression which looks very much worried for your sanity. "A voice in my head, Meg? Seriously,“ you mutter, catching her wrist and gently but firmly leading her toward the Prima Donna room. "I’m not a lunatic. I think you yourself know there must be a difference between a hallucination and a man who can cause a counterweight to drop to the stage."
You push open the heavy oak doors of your room. Usually, the air here feels magnetic with his presence. But as you step inside, the room feels... quiet. Empty. He isn't there. He’s likely back in the depths, perhaps pacing his lair with that restless energy that breaks through his collected composure sometimes, or he is meticulously preparing his lair, hoping your "frequent lessons" promise holds true.
"Come in, and shut the door, please.“, you command quietly. Meg slips inside, her eyes darting around the lavish room as if she expects the furniture to start flying. She freezes when she sees your vanity. Resting on it is a single, deep crimson rose. It is perfect, adorned by a thin black ribbon, the only flower in sight. "Another one," Meg whispers, her voice a mix of awe and terror. "He was here."
You walk over, picking up the rose and brushing the soft petals with your thumb. „Yes, he was. But he isn’t some sort of spectre. He is a man. A brilliant, lonely, and... perhaps occasionally dramatic man." You turn to face her, your tone half-joking, half-serious. Then, your expression turns deadly serious. „Yes, he is the ‚Ghost‘ everyone fears. But people mainly fear him because they believe all these awful, sensationalized and partially fabricated rumors.“, you sigh, noticing how the more you explain, the more mad it might actually make you sound. „Meg, I need you to listen to me: I have known bad people. I have witnessed what they can do. But he… I know it's hard to understand, but I trust him. He is… the most devoted soul I have ever known." Meg sinks onto the edge of your velvet chaise, her face pale. „Even if he’s a person… Y/N, he almost killed Julian! He’s killed before! And you don’t even seem concerned about it…“ She looks up at you, her eyes searching yours. "You really aren't just his student, are you? You are with him."
"Julian was being a pig," you say flatly, leaning against the vanity. „I’m not saying Eriks methods are harmless, but… he did correct Julians behavior." You mentally scold yourself for letting his name slip. Then, your voice turns softer, more quiet. „And no. I’m not… with him. But…“ I want to be, you think suddenly, like it’s the only truth you’ve ever known. Meg’s jaw drops as if she just read your thoughts. "So it’s true! You’re - you’ve fallen for him! The Phantom of the Opera!" She stands up, pacing the small space of the room. "Y/N, I love you, truly, but this is madness. He lives in the walls! He threatens people! My mother treats him like a dark god, and you’re acting like he’s some... some misunderstood poet!"
"He might have a bit of both in him.“, you reply softly. „But he is also a man who has never had a friend in his life. I won't abandon him." Your eyes are full of earnesty, and frankly, love. „Please, trust me. And please, keep this to yourself. I don’t want people to… use me to get to him. They’d hunt him down like an animal, and he truly does not deserve that.“
Meg stops pacing and looks at you for a long time. She sees the iron-clad resolve in your eyes and sighs, her shoulders slumping. "Claiming you are not a lunatic was utter nonsense." she murmurs, though there’s a flicker of a smile returning to her lips. "Fine. I will keep your secret. But if I find you’ve been dragged away, never to return, I’m telling everyone I told you so!“
"Fair enough," you laugh, reaching out to squeeze her hand, then pull her in for a hug.
Meg pulls back after a while, her breath hitching in a long, dramatic sigh. She looks at you with a mixture of resignation and irrepressible curiosity. "Well," she says, brushing a stray blonde curl from her face, "Phantom or not, I suppose he is the only… man I’ve ever seen you find remotely interesting." She leans against the vanity, her eyes narrowing as she studies your face. „So, let me get this straight. You are clearly attracted to him, and he is obviously obsessed with you, because you’re gorgeous and he’s dropping heavy objects on anyone who breathes your way... and yet? Nothing? Not a single move has been made?"
You feel heat creeping up your neck as you look at the rose, smoothing the fabric of your robe. "I suppose that is... one way to put it. Things are complicated, Meg. He isn't exactly a man of traditional courtship… Or traditional anything, really.“
"Clearly," Meg snorts. She checks the small clock on your mantle. „And you are still having lessons? Are you seeing him again tonight?“
"Yes," you murmur. „If that is the case“, Meg says, her voice snapping back into a tone of command. She stands up and marches toward your wardrobe. "You are definitely not going there in your practice clothes." A moment later, Meg is holding the wine-red dress you had bought during your day off in the city. "Meg, that dress is -“
"Perfect," she interrupts, tossing it onto the bed. "Now, off with the robe." She helps you into the silk, the cool fabric sliding over your skin. Meg works the laces with practiced speed. "Think about it, Y/N. If he truly has never had a friend in his life… you could probably wait a century for him to make the first move." You sit at the vanity, your heart thudding a rhythmic, nervous cadence against your ribs. „I just…don't want to overstep. I won’t be another person who pushes him." Meg’s expression softens with a flicker of realization that this isn’t just a crush, but something far more profound. She hands you the small pot of red rouge, watching you paint your lips until they match the bold, defiant shade of the silk. When you are finished Meg comes to stand behind you, resting her hands on your shoulders. "There. You look like the sort of woman even the most saintly of men couldn't resist. I believe simply showing up like this is move enough." Meg chirps, squeezing your hand before heading for the door. She slips out, and you quickly grab your sketchbook. You lock the door behind her, the click of the bolt echoing in the silence. You’re already two minutes late.
Erik stands in the deep shadows near the entrance to the hidden passage, his form so still he could be part of the masonry. Five minutes. To anyone else, it is a mere delay. To Erik, every second passing is a blow to his chest. His hands are clenched behind his back, then at his sides, fingers twitching. The air feels suffocating.
She isn’t coming.
The thought torments him. He replays the afternoon over and over: the crash of the sandbag, the way Julian had scrambled like a rat and even behaved during the rehearsal afterwards. He had been so proud of your "restraint" comment - so sure that you were playing the game with him - but now, in the cold reality of the cellar, he is convinced he is a fool. He thinks he misinterpreted every signal you ever gave him. He saw sincerity and gentleness where there was only pity. He was thrilled about your proposal of "frequent lessons" when it was likely just a desperate attempt to placate a madman. He tells himself he was ignorant, delusional even, to believe a woman like you could truly see the man behind the monster.
He looks toward the dark stairwell, his jaw tight. He considers retreating. His shoulders sag, the Opera Ghost crumbling into a man who simply wants to hide. He contemplates retreating, not wanting to face the humiliation and the cold reality of your absence any longer. He feels like a monster who tried to dress up in a suit and play at being a man, only to have the sun remind him where he belongs. He is so deeply submerged in his own self-loathing that the world around him has blurred into a grey fog of never again.
And then, he hears it.
A soft rustle that cuts through the stagnant air of the cellar. You round the corner, breathless, the light from a distant wall-sconce catching the vibrant hue of your skirts. You stop just a few feet from him, your chest heaving slightly from the descent. "Erik," you breathe, your voice a soft melody in the quiet. "I’m sorry... I’m late. I got caught up with... I’m sorry."
The air leaves his lungs in a sharp, audible hitch. The spiral in his mind comes to a screeching, violent halt. Erik doesn't move. He can't. He is staring at you with an intensity that feels like it could burn. His brown eyes are wide, dilating until they are nearly black as he takes in the sheer, intentional beauty of you. The fact that you came at all is a miracle; the fact that you came looking like this is a devastating blow to his defenses. You aren't in your modest practice clothes, or your Countess costume. You are a vision in crimson. The wine-red silk catches the lantern light, glowing like a dying ember. You are clutching your sketchbook to your chest, your hair falling in soft waves. His gaze lingers on your honey-colored eyes, and then drops to your lips, stained in that deep, blood-rich red. God, your lips. For a moment, they are the only thing he can look at. He lets his gaze fall to the square neckline of the crimson silk, his hand twitching at his side. His heart does a frantic, stuttering leap in his chest. He wonders if this is your version of the roses he leaves for you: A silent declaration of affection. The thought is so overwhelming, so dangerously hopeful, that he has to look away for a moment to steady himself.
He swallows hard, the movement visible in the cords of his neck. He realizes that not only is he staring, he has let the mask of the tutor slip too far. "I thought..." his voice rasps, failing him. He tries again, his tone low. "I thought you had reconsidered.“
"A truly silly thought, Erik," you say, your voice soft but carrying a note of playful reprimand. You step a fraction closer, the scent of your perfume engulfing him. "I was counting the minutes until that horrendous rehearsal ended." you say honestly. „Though the 'mechanical failure' made it much more bearable.“, you
add, a small, knowing smirk playing on your lips.
Part of him is relieved, awfully so. You have a gentle, soothing way about you that quiets the bitter voice in his head. So much so that sometimes, when you are around, he doesn't hear it at all; and that is a peace greater than any he has ever achieved on his own. If he felt he could, he would put his arms around you or fall to your knees for it. However, there However,but is another - more dominant - part of him that is fighting with all its might to maintain what little composure he has left.
"Very well," he says at last, holding back a thousand other things he wants to say. He pulls his shoulders back, his posture stiffening. He does not extend his hand today; he would not dare. He knows with a terrifying certainty that if he touches the warmth of your skin now, his resolve will shatter completely.
"Come," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that betrays the internal war he is losing. "The new role. We have... work to do." He turns abruptly, stepping back into the gloom of the passage.
The descent is swifter than usual, his long strides forcing you to hurry to keep pace. The flickering torchlight casts long, frantic shadows against the damp stone walls. Erik leads the way with a hurried pace. You maintain the distance he’s set, the rustle of your dress the only sound breaking the silence of the tunnels. It is a walk of deliberate discipline, where you play the pupil, and he pretends he isn't counting every one of your steps echoing behind him.
You arrive at the boat, which sits waiting on the edge of the black water. Usually, there is a lingering touch; a hand held a second too long, a steadying arm on your back. Not tonight. He guides you into the vessel with the absolute minimum of contact, his fingers grazing your elbow for a mere fraction of a second to steady you before he recoils. As the boat glides out into the mist, he keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the darkness ahead, looking at looking at you only as much as necessary.
The vastness of his home opens up before you, and you notice that it is different tonight. The debris of his outburst has been meticulously erased. The books on the shelves are aligned with surgical precision, and the silver candelabras have been polished until they reflect the candle flames perfectly. It is an apology written in order, a perhaps silent plea for you to forget the monster you saw and instead see the master of this domain.
Erik steps out of the boat first. He offers his hand to help you onto the quay, but then draws away immediately. He practically flees toward the grand organ, his back toward you the entire time. "Come." he commands. At first glance, he seems distant. But you know there is more to it. With him, there always is. Every fiber of his being is strained by the effort of ignoring the way you look tonight. You come closer, standing next to the organ. "We will not require warm-ups this evening," he says, his voice a low vibration. "The rehearsals were... sufficient to limber the cords. In fact, you… your singing was..." He stops, his fingers ghosting over the ivory keys. He won't look at you. He can't. He is certain that if he would see the way you look at him, he’d lose the ability to speak.
"It was perfect," he finally breathes, the word escaping him like a confession. The distance he’s trying so hard to maintain begins to dissolve already. He turns to face you, though his eyes remain fixed on the music stand to avoid the astonishing reality of you.
He reaches for a stack of beige, heavy parchment that entails a series of technical exercises. "We will focus on the messa di voce tonight, as it is required much in the second act of Il Muto." he says, his voice regaining a bit of that familiar, sharp edge. "It is not merely the swelling or lowering of volume," he murmurs, his fingers sketching a slow, rising arc in the candlelight. "It is the art of giving a single note its own life. You will begin with a thread of silk - a sound so thin it is… almost a secret - and then you will expand it until it fills this cavern like the sun breaking through clouds. Then, you must withdraw it again, narrowing the sound back into a silver needle before it vanishes." You find yourself mesmerized, not by the theory, but by him. You watch the elegance and precision of his gestures. To him, music is in no way a performance; it’s physics and magic intertwined. You feel a surge of quiet awe, your gaze tracking the motion of his hands as he speaks with this nonchalant authority of his.
"Control is everything." he says, finally turning his head just enough for the candlelight to catch the corner of his eye. "Start on the A-flat. I want to hear you stretch the note until it vibrates against the very stone, then bring it back to a whisper without letting the pitch waver by a hair’s breadth.“, he pauses, and when he speaks again there is the ghost of a smile on his face. „Show me the 'Nightingale' the people speak of, with the discipline of …her tutor."
He strikes the note, his gaze stubbornly fixed on the organ pipes. You take a deep, grounded breath, feeling the expansion in your ribs just as he taught you. You begin the note as a tiny, crystalline point. As you push the sound forward, you feel your diaphragm supporting the tone, building the resonance. You watch him as you sing. He is listening with a physical intensity, his head tilted, his frame rigid. When you reach the peak with a roar that echoes off the black water of the lake, you see his throat work as he swallows. You pull the note back, tapering it down to a haunting, steady shimmer before letting it die into silence.
The air between you hums. Erik is silent for a long moment, his hands frozen over the keys. He finally turns his head, and for the first time since you arrived in his lair, he doesn't look away. His eyes are blown wide with a mixture of shock and reverence. "Astonishing," he whispers, the word barely a breath. He reaches out, his hand hovering as if to adjust your posture, but he stops himself, his fingers trembling. "Your placement was... nearly flawless. But the transition back to the piano was a little hurried. You feared the end of the breath. Do not fear it. Trust yourself. Trust me." He leans in closer, his scent enveloping you. "Again," he says reverently.
You begin again. This time, it is different. You lock your honey-colored eyes onto his, refusing to let go. As the note blossoms, the world outside once again ceases to exist. You feel every rise and fall of your chest, and you see him tracking it, his focus so narrow and intense it feels like a touch. The sound you produce is perfect; more than perfect. It is his, the music of the night rendered in a single tone.
You see the mask of the professor crumbling as you looks at you. His eyes are no longer analyzing your technique, they are drinking you in. Suddenly, just as you reach the pinnacle of the swell, Erik’s fingers - the legendary, infallible fingers of the Opera Ghost - slip. A sharp, dissonant chord jangles through the room, cutting through the perfect sound you produced.
Erik recoils as if the keys had turned into red-hot coals. He pulls his hands back. A dull flush creeps up the visible portion of his neck. He has never, ever, played a wrong note. Certainly not in front of an audience. And of course, it had to happen in front of you. The silence that follows is agonizing to him. He looks down at the pedals, his jaw tight, his breath coming in short, shallow hitches of pure embarrassment. "I... I apologize.", he rasps, his voice tight with shame. He looks utterly defeated, as if that one wrong note has exposed every insecurity he’s spent years hiding.
"Erik," you say softly. "It’s alright. If anything, it is a relief." He looks up at you, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. He keeps his hands in his lap as, far enough to keep them from offending the keys again. "A relief?" he rasps. "To hear the tutor falter like a clumsy apprentice?"
"You usually play with a perfection that seems - if I did not know better - I would daresay inhuman to me“, you correct him with a small, playful smile. "It was starting to become a bit daunting, being your student, and all." The tension in his shoulders doesn't vanish, but it shifts. He lets out a sound that might have been a laugh in a different life. "Perfection," he murmurs, his gaze flickering back to the ivory keys. "I fear the stagnant air of these cellars must finally be affecting your mind, Mademoiselle." You snort at his self-deprecating wit, a sound that feels wonderfully out of place in the gloom of the cellar. You lean your hip against the dark, carved wood of the organ, your gaze wandering over the shelves of his library. Your eyes land on a set of weathered, leather-bound volumes: the works of Edgar Allan Poe. You smirk and lock your eyes onto his with a defiant expression. "'That which you mistake for madness is but an overacuteness of the senses.'" you say, your voice dropping into a smooth cadence.
Erik freezes. He stares at you, his eyes blown wide. He knows the line, he likely knows the very page it’s printed on in the volume behind him. For a moment, he is utterly speechless, baffled that a woman as young and beautiful possesses a mind sharp enough to throw a quote of one of his favorite poets back at him. It is an intellectual slap to the face that leaves him reeling with fascination. "You are a constant surprise, Y/N," he whispers, the "Mademoiselle" from before discarded. The awe in his tone makes you blush. Then, thinking back to your conversation with Meg, a playful - perhaps almost flirtatious - smile spreads across your face. „And you don’t even know all of me… yet.“, you hush, glancing at him. Eriks hands fumble with the fabric of his trousers as a deep flush creeps up his neck. For a man who has spent thirty years in the shadows, your bold and playful manner is a foreign language he’s desperate to learn but terrified to misinterpret. He looks away, then back at you, then down at his hands. His mind bombards him with questions. Had you said 'yet'? Does that… could that mean that you want him to know… all of you? All of you? Do you even know what you are saying? He feels like he has been offered a banquet he isn’t allowed to touch. And frankly, he’s wondering if he has finally succumbed to the madness you both just joked about. You let out a small, soft giggle at how endearing and absurd the moment is. The sound of your laughter acts like a tether, pulling him back from his thoughts.
After hesitating a moment, you speak. "Erik... would you play something of your own?" You gesture toward the manuals. "I’d much rather listen to you for a moment than hear myself." He looks up at you. He is almost certain you asking him to play something of his own is you giving him a way to reclaim his dignity. He realises how gracefully and kindly you handle his mistakes, his insecurity, and the shame that comes with it. In a way, you are proving to him that you find his "imperfections" just as worthy of your time as his genius. The look of gratitude in his eyes is so raw it is almost painful to witness.
He considers playing something „safe“ to keep the wall between you standing. But as he looks at you, leaning against the organ in your crimson silk, he scolds himself. He is tired of retreating. He is tired of pushing you away when all you offer is this terrifying, yet beautiful acknowledgement.
He reaches for the leather-bound folder that rests on his desk, his movements slow and deliberate. He flips through the cream-colored pages of dense, aggressive notation until he reaches the very last sheet. The ink looks fresh. He looks up at you for a heartbeat, his brown eyes searching yours with a vulnerability that makes your breath catch. The adoration in his eyes is no longer a secret; it is a floodgate held open. There is a profound gratitude there, a silent thank you for not recoiling - or perhaps for just being there.
Then, he turns back to the manuals. The first few notes are soft, a rhythmic pulsing in the lower register that feels like a heartbeat: Steady, persistent, and warm. Already, this piece is vastly different from the haunting one he played before. It is unconventional, yes. It shifts through keys that shouldn't work together, yet under his hands, they resolve into a harmony that feels inevitable. As his hands begin to move across the multiple keyboards, the sound blossoms. The darkness that usually haunts his music has receded. It is the sound of a man discovering light for the first time. It is the sound of hope, and it is terrifyingly beautiful.
As he plays, Erik’s entire being seems to transform. His shoulders lose their rigid tension, and his head tilts back, his eyes closed. He is no longer the tutor or the ghost; he is a man pouring the unspoken chaos of his soul into the air. You stay exactly where you are, leaning against the dark wood of the organ, so close that you can feel the vibration of the pipes travel through your form. Your eyes track his every move, and you find yourself mesmerized. His fingers dance with a precision that makes the earlier mistake seem like a fever dream. He is brilliant. He is a genius of the highest order, and he is playing this, his newest and most secret truth, for you.
Unbeknownst to you, every swell in the volume is a dream of holding you close; every delicate trill a memory of your gentle touch. This piece tells the story of a monster who has begun to believe he might be a man. It speaks of the miracle of your presence, of the way your laughter has scoured the bitterness from his soul and replaced it with hope. It is a prayer for you to stay, a plea for you to look past the masks and see the heart laid bare on the ivory keys.
He reaches the climax of the piece, the sound filling the lair. It is triumphant, a soaring declaration of life. Then, with a master's touch, he brings it back down, ending on a lingering, open major ninth. It is a sound that feels like a question, an unfinished thought, a door of an old storage room, left slightly ajar. The echoes fade into silence. Erik remains still, his hands resting lightly on the keys, his head bowed. Then, he looks at you, his face pale and vulnerable in the candlelight.
"It’s different.“ you whisper, your voice barely audible over the fading echoes. He looks at you, his gaze speaking volumes. He sees the woman who threw Poe back at him. He sees the woman who stayed. „It was... unwritten until very recently.“ He rasps, his gaze dropping to your lips for a dangerously long second before returning to your eyes. „It is a difficult piece to master because the rhythm is... erratic." He lets out a dry, shaky breath. "Much like the man who wrote it." You let your gaze soften, your heart aching for him. "It's perfect exactly as it is.“, you say softly. Truthfully, you are not really certain if you’re talking of the melody only. "It feels... like hope translated into song. It feels like someone who is finally allowing himself to breathe." A flicker of something intense flashes in his eyes. Erik’s fingers twitch on the keys, his eyes shimmering with a raw, unprotected light.
"What is it called?" you ask softly. "Don Juan Triumphant," he murmurs, fingers twitching as he is searching for his next words. "In the old tales," Erik begins, his voice gaining a melodic depth, "Don Juan is punished for his desires. He is dragged to the flames because he refuses to repent for being what he is. The world calls it a tragedy. I call it a victory." He looks at you, the vulnerability in his expression intense. "It is the moment he looks at a world that has judged him and says: 'I will not change.' To be Triumphant... is to be content with who you truly are."
The realization hits you then. He isn't just talking about a fictional character. He is talking about moments like this. About you, standing there in his lair, looking at his work and his life without turning away. Your heart swells at the thought.
"May I?" you whisper, gesturing to the small space remaining on the organ bench. Erik looks at the narrow space, then at you. He nods - a small, jerky motion - and shifts to make room. You slide onto the velvet-covered bench, but you don't face the keys. You turn, sitting with your back to the organ. He is right beside you, you can feel the heat radiating off him. If you turned your head his face would be mere inches away from you.
You stare out into the lights and shadows of his home for a moment. Then, you lower your gaze to your hands in your lap and ask in a voice barely above a breath, "It is not just an opera to you, is it?" He keeps his hands on the keys, though he doesn't play. The candlelight flickers, casting the shadow of his mask against the pipes. "No," he says finally, the word sounding like it was dragged from his very depths. You feel the gravity of his admission; this music is his very existence. "I am honored that you let me hear it," you murmur. "To be trusted like that is a gift I do not take lightly, Erik."
He turns his head to look at you, and you find his eyes immediately. He swallows, and then, in a quiet and soft voice, he says something absolutely raw and honest. "I have never in my whole life been treated with as much kindness as you offer," he whispers, his voice trembling. He looks down and pauses. "It is... you are... a miracle, Y/N. Something sacred. And, if I am being honest, it is utterly terrifying." Your heart beats steady against your ribs. "Why terrifying?" you ask.
"Because you make me forget what I am. You make me believe, for a single, feverish second, that the 'Triumph' might actually be possible." he rasps. "And you make me want to wish for things I no right to claim." He adds with something resembling a small sad smile, staring at the keys with a distant gaze.
You wait for him to continue, but then you find the flicker of something desperate and hopeful is in his gaze. His eyes search yours. "Would you… sing with me?" he asks, throwing you off guard a bit. Yet, a spark of curiosity crosses your features. You have heard him speak, and you have heard his compositions, but you have never properly heard him sing. You can only imagine what a voice shaped by such a mind would sound like. You offer a small, steady nod, your arm brushing his as you rise from the bench, giving him the space he needs to command the keys. You stay close, standing at the side of the instrument.
He begins to play. The first few chords are heavy, haunting, and instantly familiar. Your eyes dart to his in a flash of pure wonder. You know this melody; you have carried it with you for years, hearing it drift through the floorboards and echo in the secret passages during the nights you spent wandering this house. As the realization dawns on your face, a wave of relief ripples through him. The melody is pulsating with a life of its own, it is demanding to be given a voice. Without a second thought, the words seem to rise from your subconscious, a perfect, fated fit for the music.
"In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came
That voice which calls to me and speaks my name
And do I dream again? For now I find
The Phantom of the Opera is here, inside my mind"
Erik watches you with a reverence that is almost frightening. His hands fly across the keys, but his eyes never leave yours. He looks at you as if you are a dream come true, a vision he has finally summoned into reality. Shivers run through him as your voice fills the space between you. Then, he joins you. The corner of your lips curves up as your mouth opens in a mixture of awe and surprise at how he sounds. His voice is a rich, dark velvet that vibrates through the stone floor and settles directly in your chest. It is powerful, commanding, yet threaded with a fragility that makes your heart ache.
„Sing once again with me, out strange duet
My power over you grows stronger yet
And though you turn from me to glance behind
The Phantom of the Opera is there, inside your mind“
As he sings, he crosses the distance to the very edge of the bench, his body angling toward you. You take an instinctive step toward him, the crimson silk of your dress whispering against the floor. The world around you falls away, and all you can see, hear, and feel is him.
„In all your fantasies You always knew…“
As he continues, your gaze holds his. You don‘t hold back the adoration you feel for him. Your eyes shine with a longing akin to the one he feels, and it renders him powerless. He stands abruptly, the organ bench groaning as it is pushed back. His hands stay on the keys for a final beat. Then he steps into your orbit, his scent and warmth drawing closer.
„That man and mystery“ „…were both in you“
You answer him, your voice smooth and your gaze unwavering. His eyes drink you in, and his mind goes blissfully blank. He comes even closer, every doubt he usually feels forgotten, and you meet him halfway. It’s like a magic pull you can’t fight, and frankly, you don’t want to. Right now, you are so close that his chest almost meets yours as he breathes in. You see the way his pupils are blown wide with something holy and desperate.
„And in this labyrinth where night is blind...“
His hand rises, hovering just beneath your chin. He doesn't touch you, but the heat of his palm radiates against you, a silent command that tilts your head up to look at him. Your souls seem to blend together in the flickering candlelight, your crystalline highs wrapping around the shadows of his baritone like ivy on a vine.
„The Phantom of the Opera is here inside my mind“
The melody shifts, the song slowly nearing its peak. Erik looks at you with an emotion you can’t quite name.
„Sing, my Angel of Music!" he commands, his voice filled with reverence. Your eyes are locked on his as you begin in a soft, lower tone.
"He’s there, the Phantom of the Opera"
Then you begin to vocalize. His gaze travels over your form, lingering on your eyes and lips. He steps away just an inch, and moves to your side. You feel his chest pressing against your upper arm and shoulder. He commands you to sing again and again, his breath tingling against your ear. With every of your responses, the notes climb higher, building a staircase of your spirits entwined.
You crane your neck, tilting your face to him. His face is a breath away from yours, his eyes lidded as he looks down to you. You let your gaze wander from his dark eyes to his parted lips. Then, you feel his right hand beginning to move in front of your chest. It clenches into a fist near your stomach and slowly draws up, so close yet careful never to touch you.
As the song nears its end, he lets his hand that hovers near your neck graze your shoulder lightly. The tenderness of his touch makes a shiver run through you. His last words come as a desperate plea, his arm extending as if coaxing the last note out of you. „Sing for me!“ Your eyes follow his outstretched arm. You take a quick, deep breath and let the final note soar. It is a divine high tone that ignites the air and echoes off the black water of the lake. He stays just a step away from you, hand dropping and fingers trembling as the sound fills his every shadow of his mind.
The last note finally fades into a loaded silence. Your chest heaves, your lips are parted, and your eyes are dazed, unfocused from the sheer power of the music. When you turn your head to Erik and find his eyes again, there is a reverence in them that borders on worship. He looks baffled, in awe, because of you. His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips, lingering on the crimson paint that has survived the night. He stands frozen, terrified to move, as if the slightest touch would cause the miracle that you are to dissolve into thin air. For a long moment, you both stay as you are.
Then, as your breathing slowly calms a little, you turn towards him fully. As you do, your eyes come up to study his face, gauging his reaction. With a slow, deliberate motion that gives him every possibility to retreat, you raise your hand to the space between you. You watch him again, and find him still standing frozen, waiting. Finally, you let your palm settle against the black silk of his waistcoat. Erik’s breath hitches. To a man who has only ever known the touch of a lash or the iron of a cell, the gentle warmth of your hand pressed against his center is a blessing he is not sure he deserves. Suddenly, he becomes painfully aware that your hand lays right above where his wretched heart should be. He realizes you can feel it’s frantic beating through the fabric. If you had not known how much power you have over him before, he thinks, now you certainly do. The thought him unsettles him, and yet he cannot bring himself to move. In fact, he finds that for once in his life, he does not want to. He does not want run, to hide, to scare you away. Just once, he wants to let himself have this.
You feel his heart beat against your palm, the rhythm a mirror of your own racing pulse. Your eyes drift from his chest to his eyes, and then back down again. Your gaze follows your hand as you slide it further upward, tracking his every reaction. Your fingers graze the line of his collar until they settle at the warm, exposed skin of his neck. You feel goosebumps forming under your finger tips, then a shudder running through him. You feel breathless, like time has stopped entirely. With a boldness that Meg would surely applaud, you let your hand slide even further back, to the nape of his neck. A shuddering breath escapes him. You look at his face once more and stroke your thumb gently along his cheek. His eyes are wide and glossy, his expression a mixture of terror and worship. He stands before you in surrender to a grace he doesn't believe he deserves. You can see the war within him; the flaring hope you ignite in him fighting against his overpowering sense of unworthiness. You hold his gaze a second longer, letting him see the adoration and certainty in yours. Then, you let your eyes drop to his parted lips, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you close the space between you.
Your eyes flutter closed as your lips meet his in a gentle, reverent kiss. Erik’s eyes fly wide for a fraction of a second, filled with a shock so profound it borders on agony. The scent of you and the impossible softness of your lips against his is beyond what he can process. But then, in an instant, the raging war within him stops. His mind, usually a labyrinth of complex melodies, goes utterly, blissfully blank. His eyes flutter shut. He can’t believe this. He simply can’t. The crushing sense of unworthiness slowly creeps back into his mind. His hands - still hovering in the air - start trembling violently. He is certain that if he exerts even a pound of pressure, the spell must break and you must shatter in his arms. You sense his hesitation. Without a second thought you bring your other arm behind his neck, pulling him closer. You’re openly showing him that you want this, that this feels right to you.
A low, broken sound catches in his throat. Then, he gives in. One hand comes to the back of your head, tangling in your hair, while the other presses firmly into the small of your back. He pulls you flush against him, as if he were trying to merge his very soul with yours, and elicits a soft groan from you. The sound courses through him like lightning. To hear you – the exquisite, radiant, remarkable woman that you are – responding to him with such a tender noise is something he has dreamed of for so long, yet he never thought it possible. It is a clumsy, reverent kiss, the kiss of a man who has lived forty years in a desert and has finally tasted rain. He thinks, with a dizzying sense of awe, that if he died in this exact second, he would finally have a reason to forgive God for the rest of his life.
When you eventually pull back, you are both breathing heavily. Erik’s eyes remain closed, his whole frame trembling. He is afraid, dreadfully so, to open his eyes – for that might confirm that he has finally gone mad and imagined the greatest mercy of his life. You stay where you are, your warmth and familiar scent keeping him hoping that maybe, just maybe, this could actually be real.
Slowly, with a hesitation that breaks your heart, Erik dares to open his eyes. When his gaze finally meets yours, his eyes are consumed with emotion. There is raw, aching longing and adoration, mixed with profound disbelief. Soon enough, he searches your face, his eye darting from your brows to your lips, back to your eyes, looking for any trace of regret, or - to him, just as likely - disgust. To his astonishment, he finds neither.
Instead, he sees the same fierce longing, the same steady adoration, and the same certainty he feels reflected in your eyes. He can’t deny, that at least for this very moment, that you chose this. You chose him. A low, jagged breath escapes him as another shudder rattles through his entire being. He casts his gaze down, tears welling in his eyes. On the one hand, he wants to hide the deeply touched and vulnerable state you have reduced him to. The thought humiliates him. Yet on the other hand, he was absolutely convinced that he would die without ever experiencing affection of this kind. That scared, starving part of him wants to show you, to at least put into words what this means to him. But he couldn't bring a single word to cross his lips right now, even if his life depended on it.
You move your hand to his cheek, coaxing him to look at you. You see the uncertainty in his eyes, the shame in you seeing him like this. Everything about this - about being so close to him - feels right to you. You are where you are meant to be. So, you do not give him the chance to spiral back into his thoughts. You close the distance a second time.
This time, you press your body flush against his. You hear his sharp intake of his breath as your arms wrap around him, pulling him closer until there isn't a breath of air between you. Feeling the warmth of your body pressed against him makes him feel things he has never felt before. Erik’s arms wrap around you with a strength that is almost crushing. His fingers tangle in the crimson fabric as he whimpers, returning the kiss carefully at first.
You part your lips, deepening the kiss. The air between you seems to ignite. The gentle, reverent exploration shifts instantly into something more primal, more desperate. Erik lets out a sharp, ragged gasp against your mouth as he tastes the living, breathing heat of your soul. A low, vibrating rumble - halfway between a sob and a growl - rises from deep within his chest. Much to his and your surprise, the restraint he has practiced for decades suddenly snaps.
With a sound of absolute, unadulterated surrender and a ferocity that speaks of decades of starvation he returns the kiss. He devours the contact, his mouth moving against yours with a frantic, rhythmic intensity that tells the story of every lonely night he spent watching you from the shadows. A violent, involuntary shudder travels down his spine. His hands, which had been so careful, so terrified of breaking you, tighten. One hand claws into the waves of your hair, tilting your head to drink deeper, while the other locks around your waist with a dazed, possessive heat. He pulls you even closer, if such a thing is possible, crushing your soft form against his body.
The sheer, untamed power of his responses send a jolt of liquid heat through you. You have come to know his icy composure well, but this - the way his hands claw into your hair and his body hums with desperate desire - is a revelation. You are being swept away by a current you have no desire to fight. The lair around you ceases to exist. There is only the frantic beat of his heart against you and the way he whimpers into the kiss when you pull him nearer. To Erik, this is a melody he never dared compose. He isn't just kissing a breathtaking woman. He is being seen, being touched, and being wanted. He is tasting what he spent his life dreaming of. He breaks the kiss for a mere second, his forehead resting against yours as he sucks in a lungful of air, his breath hot and erratic. His mask is slightly askew, his eyes are dark and glazed with feverish emotions.
Inside Erik’s mind, his thoughts are everywhere and nowhere at once. There is a frantic, overlapping cacophony of She is real. She is warm. I am hurting her. No, she is pulling me closer. I am a monster. I am a man. I am dying. No. I am finally, finally alive. He was terrified that the moment you stopped, he would wake up in his. And he was equally terrified that his loss of restraint would scare you away. But you are still here, looking up at him with your face flushed and your lips parted.
"Y/N," he chokes out, the name a broken prayer. "We cannot... Tell me to stop... tell me this is a madness born of the music. Because if you don't, I fear I will not find the strength to let the world see you again."
"Then don’t," you whisper, your voice steady against the heat of his breath. "Let them wonder. I am exactly where I chose to be."
Erik closes his eyes as if he is trying to commit everything that just happened to his memory: The scent of your hair, the taste of your lips, the softness of your words and the way your heart thudded against his chest. He stays like that for a long, unmeasured moment, his forehead still resting against yours. Slowly, his hands relax their frantic grip, though they don't leave you. They merely soften, his fingers trembling as he finds your eyes again.
"I have spent my life composing about this," he murmurs, his voice raw and gravelly. He takes a shaky, uneven breath, his gaze dropping to your reddened lips for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes. "I have written operas centered on the anatomy of longing. I thought I knew its every chord, its every dissonance." He lets out a short, self-deprecating breath that isn't quite a laugh. "But I was a fool. I knew nothing. Not until you wandered into these shadows and simply... refused to be afraid. I knew nothing of longing until I realized I would tear down the very sky just to ensure you would return to me."
He moves one hand from your hair, his bare fingers tracing the line of your jaw with a touch as light as a falling petal. He seems to be memorizing the feel of your skin, confirming that you aren't a hallucination born of his own desperation. A shadow of his habitual insecurity flickers in his dark eyes as he searches your face. "If you are truly mad enough to... want this," he says, the concept of being wanted sounding like both a cruel absurdity and a divine dream, „I know I am not worthy it, but - God help us both - I find I am too selfish to refuse.“
𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖑, pt. 12
phantom of the opera x reader
AN: A shorter one again, but the next one is already in the works. Aaaand I daresay the next one will be... quite something. Enjoy! x
Word count: 2996
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜
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12 - 𝕬 𝕷𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖔𝖓 𝖎𝖓 𝕽𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖙
The next morning, a sharp, rhythmic knocking at the door pulls you from a dream filled with the scent of old parchment and the echo of thunderous chords.
"Y/N? Are you awake? I’m coming in!"
Before you can even find your voice, Meg slips into the room. She looks remarkably well-rested, her blonde curls bouncing with every step and her expression a mixture of guilt and a very poorly hidden glee. "I am so, so sorry for yesterday!“ she begins, her voice a hushed squeal as she sat on the edge of your bed. "Interrupting your lesson... I feel like a total clod, and I-„ She stops abruptly, her nose wrinkling. She leans in closer to you, sniffing the air like a curious kitten. "You smell... different."
You sit up, pushing your hair back and casting a reflexive glance at the large gilded mirror across the room. You know he’s there. You can feel that faint, magnetic hum in the air. You briefly wonder if he ever truly sleeps, before you roll your eyes playfully at Meg. "I would have liked for the ground to swallow me whole, Meg.“, you groan, leaning back into the pillows. Meg giggles, then she suddenly stops and springs up from the bed. Her curiosity finally piques by the splash of yellow fabric draped over the vanity chair, her eyes widening as she spots the dark smears of ink across the sleeve, bodice and skirts. "Y/N!" she gasps, her voice climbing an octave. She turns back to you, a wicked, triumphant grin stretching across her face as she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. "Ink? All over the dress you wore yesterday?“ She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Good heavens, did your tutor decide to give you a... different kind of demonstration last night? I didn't realize lessons involved being pinned against a desk."
Behind the cold glass of the gilded mirror, Erik’s jaw practically hits the floor. A strangled hitch in his breathing escapes, so faint he hopes not even you could hear it. He hears that dancer speak of your ‚nighttime lessons' with a vulgarity that should make his blood boil. He is caught between a protective outrage that anyone would speak of you so like this and a sudden, scorching heat at the mental image Meg so carelessly conjured. He waits for your disgust. He expects you to defend your virtue, to express the natural horror any sane woman would feel at the thought of being intimate with a creature like him. In fact, he is mortified that such a suggestion has even touched the air you breathe. Yet, deep in the dark hollow of his ribs, a treacherous, starving part of him wonders... wonders if you could ever look at him and think of something other than music.
You can't help the hearty laugh that escapes you. „Meg Giry!“ you chide, as you rarely hear her speak in such tongues. As your laughter subsides, it slowly turns into a smirk that puts her former wicked grin to shame. "It is… purely professional." You state in an overly flat manner. You pause and lean in slightly, well aware that Erik will be hearing every word. Your eyes remain fixed on her with a playful glint. "And even if it weren't... I wouldn't be telling you about it."
His heart stops beating as you say this. To him, the whole world and every thought he has ever had goes silent. He can hear nothing but the roar of his own blood in his ears. You… did not recoil in horror at the suggestion that your 'tutor' might be something more. Instead, you - being the wicked, devilish, wonderful creature that you are - played with the idea, and tossed it back to the Giry girl with a playfulness that undoes him. You acknowledged the pull that passes between you in the dark, and you… are not ashamed of it. It almost feels like an invitation. The starving part of his soul that has lived on the cold scraps of imagined affection for so long is sent reeling. To think that you could hear the suggestion of intimacy with a despicable being like him and not turn away... is a feast of hope unlike any before. He wants to believe it, desperately so. He wants to sink his teeth into the possibility that he could be more to you than a voice in the wall, even as the rest of him screams that you cannot mean it.
Meg lets out a muffled squeal at your non-denial, her hands flying to her mouth to contain her shock. "You're terrible, Y/N! A vixen!" she cries, snatching a decorative velvet pillow from the armchair and hurling it at you with a giggle. You catch it against your chest, laughing as she shakes her head in disbelief. „You will tell me more!“, she says, pointing a finger at you before checking the clock on your mantle and clasping her hands together. „But for now, you must get up! The managers want to see you. It seemed urgent."
You slide out of bed as your laughter fades and a grin remains, grabbing your robe. "I’m moving, I’m moving!" You disappear into the small, partitioned bathing nook at the far corner of the room. Since it is tucked behind a heavy velvet curtain and a stone pillar, you are shielded from the view of the gilded mirror.
Behind the glass, Erik stands steadying himself, his hands pressing hard against the masonry of the secret passage. He is reeling from your casual defiance of social propriety, his mind replaying your words and the smirk you delivered them with. He listens to the distant splash of water from the nook, the sound evocative and torturously intimate. He tries to compose himself, to reclaim the icy mantle of the Opera Ghost, but you had sent his whole being trembling.
A few minutes later you emerge, dressed in your rehearsal clothes. You had pulled a velvet robe over your shoulders to ward off the morning chill of the stone corridors. You look refreshed, though the playful glint hasn't left your eyes. Meg is already at the door, gesturing for you to hurry. "Come on!" she calls out. You follow her, but just as you reach the threshold, you pause. You turn slightly, casting a deliberate glance over your shoulder toward the large mirror. You don’t stare, but you let your gaze linger on the glass for a heart-stopping second. The hint of a smirk - knowing, secret, and entirely for him - curves your lips. Behind the mirror, Erik feels the air leave his lungs. He knows you can’t see him, yet he feels entirely exposed, as if your gaze has pierced the silver surface for you to see every desperate hope written on his face. You vanish into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind you.
Meg accompanies you, chattering the entire way, but your mind is elsewhere. You feel the weight of his gaze as you make your way down the corridors. When you reach the managers' office, the door is already ajar, and the smell of expensive cigars wafts out.
"Ah! Our star! Our savior! Our jewel!" Firmin bellows the moment you step inside. He springs from his velvet chair, nearly toppling a glass of sherry, and rushes over to take your hands. His face is flushed with genuine delight. "Mademoiselle, you look radiant! Positively glowing! Doesn't she look radiant, André?"
„She is a godsend, Firmin," André says, finally looking up from his ledgers. He gives you a nod that is surprisingly respectful for a man who usually only sees people as figures on a balance sheet. "A breath of fresh air, less temper, and a guarantee to a sold-out house. The public is eagerly awaiting your every performance."
„He is right; Paris wants you." Firmin says, leading you further into the room. "And as it turns out, Paris shall have you sooner than expected." He gestures to a crumpled, strongly-scented letter resting on the desk. Even from a distance, you can make out the aggressive handwriting. "We received this by courier an hour ago." André sighs, leaning back against his chair. "A symphony of curses and threats. It seems our former Prima Donna is quite displeased that we allowed you to take the stage in her absence. She is on her way back to Paris-„
"However!" Firmin interjects, his eyes twinkling. "It seems the universe - or perhaps a clumsy blacksmith - has intervened. Her carriage has suffered a catastrophic failure. Somewhere in the mud of the countryside, she appears to be quite literally stuck for at least another day.“ You catch your reflection in the managers' silver tea service and have to bite back a smirk. Mechanical failures, Erik had called them.
"Which brings us to our new production: Il Muto," André says, his tone becoming more professional. "Rehearsals begin at noon. You’ve studied the score, I assume? You are to be our Countess."
"I know the music," you say, "but I’ll admit the plot of it feels a bit... shallow?“
„Shallow? The plot is classic nonsense, my dear!" Firmin chuckles, leaning in to explain as if he were telling a grand secret. "You are the Countess, deeply enamored with your young Page Boy - who will be played by Julian, a lad with hair like honey and the brains of a brioche. You spend the first act trying to hide him in a wardrobe while your husband, the Count, blunders about with a sword. It is all very silly, very colorful, and very, very profitable."
„The public needs a laugh after the 'Ghost's' theatrics had La Carlotta flee this house." André adds, casting a stern look at you. You nod politely, and take the leather-bound score they hand you. "That’s the spirit!" Firmin beams, clapping his hands together. "Now, go! Julian will be waiting at the stage already!“
The set for Il Muto is a pink mass of rococo fluff. Among the painted clouds and gilded molding, a massive bed and an ornate wardrobe stand center stage like monuments of bad decisions. As soon as your foot hits the wooden floorboards of the stage, you feel it. He is here, somewhere in the rafters, his brown eyes likely fixed on you.
"Ah, the Countess has arrived!" Julian calls out. He is exactly as Firmin described: golden-haired, and wearing a smile that speaks little of intellect and loads of how much time he must spend admiring his own reflection. Julian had been a lead tenor for two seasons. Until your debut, he wouldn't have even looked at you if you were burning alive. Now, he approaches you with his eyes raking over your practice clothes. "Ready to hide me in your wardrobe, Mademoiselle?" he smirks, adjusting his doublet.
The rehearsal begins, and it is every bit as horrible as you feared. You spend the next hour fluttering a silk fan and practicing the expressions of a woman deceiving her husband. Glorifying infidelity and making a comedy out of it feels like selling a tiny part of your soul to the industry. Julian, however, is having the time of his life. Since his character cannot speak, he seems to compensate with an over-the-top physicality that borders on harassment. During a short break, he even commented how he enjoys being able to focus on the physical aspectsof the „chemistry“.
"From the top!" Monsieur Reyer calls out.
Julian moves to the center of the stage. According to the blocking, he is supposed to kneel before you in a gesture of silent adoration. He drops to one knee, back turned to where the audience sits, looking up at you with a gaze that is supposed to be attractive.
As the orchestra hits the crescendo, Julian takes a liberty not found in the script. "You really are a marvel, Y/N," he whispers. "Perhaps once the sun goes down, we could find a more... private setting to practice our movements?" His hand, warm and damp, begins to trail up the side of your leg. Your face distorts, a flash of lethal anger crossing your features as you prepare to shove him backward - but you don't get the chance.
CRASH.
A massive sandbag, used for counterweighting the heavy scenery, hurtles from the fly floor. It whistles past Julian’s ear so close it ruffles his hair, and slams onto the stage floor.
Julian lets out a high-pitched, not particularly manly shriek, stumbling sideways as he scrambles away from the impact zone. The orchestra screeches to a halt, the silence that follows vibrating with the aftershock of the near-miss. Julian is gasping on the floor, his face pale and his arrogance replaced by wide-eyed terror. A low, resonant voice ripples through the theater. It doesn't sound like it's coming from the rafters, it sounds like the building itself is speaking.
„Restraint is a virtue, Monsieur," the voice rasps, dripping with a cold, lethal irony. "Perhaps you should endeavour to act accordingly... before I ensure you have no choice in the matter."
Julian nearly trips over his feet as he leaves the stage. „Mon dieu!“, you hear Firmin shout as he sends stagehands to check the rigging. Meg is at your side in an instant, her hands trembling as she reaches for your arm. Your gaze meets hers, and she sees the lack of terror in your eyes. She looks up at the rafters, then back at you, her blue eyes wide with a dawning, terrifying clarity. The "tutor." The voice. The Ghost. The pieces click into place with a sickening thud. "Oh, God. You’ve been with him." Before she can say another word, a black-clad shadow detaches itself from the wings. "Meg. Go get the dancers back to their dorm safely.“, Madame Giry commands. „But-…“, Meg hesitates, scurrying away after a stern look from her mother.
Madame Giry turns to you. She leans heavily on her cane, her dark eyes searching your face with a mixture of clinical observation and a weary concern. She gestures for you to follow her into the quiet, drafty corridor behind the main stage.
"That was not merely a threat.", she says bluntly, the moment you are alone. "That was a declaration of ownership before the entire house." She steps closer, the floorboards creaking slightly. "I have known him for a very long time. He is a genius, yes, but he is also a man of extremes. He would not hesitate to burn this theatre to the ground if he found he had to.“
She pauses, her gaze softening into something that resembles respect. "You have a kind heart, Y/N. But are you in control of your senses? Do you understand what sort of man you’re… dealing with?“
You meet her gaze, your jaw set with the same conviction you showed Erik in the lair. "I do, Madame. I know who he is. And I think, perhaps, I am the only one who truly does." Madame Giry studies you for a long moment, the stern lines of her face softening into something maternal and surprisingly tender. She reaches out, her gloved hand briefly squeezing your shoulder. "Bless your soul, child," she murmurs. She gives a single, slow nod, a silent blessing bestowed upon both you and the man hiding in the walls. "Go then. May the heavens be kind to you both."
As you step back onto the pink stage, the managers are in a tizzy. Firmin is dabbing his forehead with a silk handkerchief, and André is shouting at the Master of the Rigging. "It’s a miracle! A miracle no one was killed!" Firmin wails. "Julian, my boy, are you all right? Perhaps we should call it for the day?" Julian is standing near the prompt box, clutching a glass of water with trembling hands. His honey-colored hair is disheveled, and his face is the color of curdled cream. "Call it a day? I want a bodyguard!" You walk to the center of the stage, standing right beside the massive sandbag that still sits on the floorboards. You look at Julian, one eyebrow arched in amusement. "A bodyguard, Julian? For a faulty rope?" you ask, your voice carrying clearly through the auditorium. "Faulty rope? It was the Phantom! He threatened me!" Julian sputters, gesturing wildly to the rafters.
"Monsieur Firmin," you say, turning to the manager with a calm and collected manner, "we have a production to mount and very little time. I think we should continue." Julian stares at you as if you’ve grown a second head. "Are you mad?“, he exclaims. "If you’re too shaken to play the Page, I’m sure we can find a someone who is less... delicate.", you reply simply. That hits him right in the ego. He swallows hard, straightens up, and shoots you a look of resentment. He wants to prove he isn’t a coward, especially not in front of the woman he was just trying to seduce. "Fine," he snaps, though his voice is an octave higher than usual. "From the top of the scene."
The rehearsal continues, but the energy has shifted entirely. Julian is now a model of professional distance. He kneels where he’s supposed to, he looks where he’s supposed to, and he keeps his hands strictly to himself. As the final notes of the scene die down, and Julian stands to take his scripted leave, you snap your silk fan shut with a sharp clack. "Restraint suits you, Julian," you say quietly, your voice dripping with a dry, elegant wit. Julian looks at you with horror and astonishment, recognizing the echo of the Ghost’s earlier warning. He opens his mouth to say something, but he thinks better of it. Then, he simply shakes his head and scurries off-stage. Somewhere in the shadows, you can practically picture Erik beaming with dark pride. You aren't just his angel. You’re his equal in the game.
𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖑, pt. 11
phantom of the opera x reader
AN: this one took me ages for some reason. these aren't proofread well so if you see any mistakes please do lmk, thank you.
Word count: 6768
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜
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11 - 𝕴𝖓𝖐 𝕾𝖙𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝕴𝖗𝖔𝖓 𝕮𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖘
The door to the upper world clicks shut behind you, leaving nothing but the silence of the Opera’s secret passages beneath. Tonight, something about the descent into the cellars feels different. The hand that holds yours feels somehow more gentle, but also more firm. For a while he walks before you, leading the way. His strides are a little slower tonight. It is as if he has finally allowed himself to believe that he does not need to rush you as a way to ensure you do not change your mind.
As you reach a wider path he moves from the front to walk beside you, the position of your hands shifting. You can’t even tell if he did it or if it was you, but his fingers lace through yours, closing around your knuckles. The edge of the black lake comes into sight. Erik reluctantly lets go of your hand and steps ahead. He steadies the gondola, and drapes the cloak he had been holding over one of the wooden planks inside it. He turns, offering his hand once more to help you. He guides you into the boat with a steadying care, his palm remaining against yours just a second longer than necessary before he releases you. You take a seat, smoothing down the light yellow fabric of your dress. Before his hands take up the oars, Erik pauses. He holds the black and silver folder toward you, his fingers lingering on the leather for a fraction of a second. "Would you... guard this for me?" he asks, his voice low. You take note that even in the way he phrases his question, he is showing you how much this simple gift truly means to him. You find yourself nodding softly, holding the folder to your chest as he takes up the oar.
The boat begins to glide across the glass-like surface of the black water. Usually, you would find yourself mesmerized by the stalactites or the way the lantern light fractures against the ripples, turning the cavern into a cathedral of dancing gold. But tonight, you watch him and the rhythmic, powerful grace of his movements. In the dim light, the harsh lines of his mask are softened, and you let your eyes trace the silhouette of his jaw, the set of his shoulders; the whole elegant, tragic nobility with which he carries himself. He is a man of a thousand secrets - a man whose past is a book of scars and brilliance you have only begun to read - and yet, it feels as though you have known the cadence of his soul your entire life. You had seen parts of the „monster“ the world feared, and you had chosen to wrap your arms around him. You think of the desperate strength of his arms as his sobs tore through him, and of how you held him until the pain subsided, leaving nothing but your connection.
Just then, Meg’s voice echoes in your mind and the truth hits you with the force of a physical blow. She is right. This isn't just empathy, and certainly not just the devotion of a student. It is something deeper, something that makes the air in your lungs feel heavy in the nicest way. You have fallen for him, for both the genius and the broken man in the shadows. The realization is so sudden and so profound that a deep, undeniable blush floods your cheeks, heating your skin despite the subterranean chill.
Erik - a man who has survived by observing the smallest shifts in his environment - notices. He sees the way your gaze has been anchored to him, and he sees the moment your expression shifts from quiet observation to a tell-tale crimson. His rowing doesn't falter, but his fingers shift against the oar. A flicker of something dances in his eyes while he wonders what could possibly cause the "Nightingale" to flush so beautifully. He does not dare believe that he could be the source of that warmth rising to your cheeks. He simply keeps rowing, his heart beating against his ribs.
The prow of the boat eventually nudges the stone quay with a soft, hollow thud. Erik moves out of the boat in an instant. He turns back to the boat, offering his hand. As you step onto the cold stone, his other hand finds your back, his palm pressed against the silk of your dress as he guides you toward the center of the lair. The air of the lair hits you, and it is bitterly cold. The vast space, usually filled with the scent of beeswax and the low hum of his genius, feels stagnant and hollow. It is a reflection of the hours he had spent spiralling. "The hearth is cold." Erik murmurs, "I have... neglected the comforts of this place today."
Erik moves quickly, trying to conjure warmth to make up for the chill he had allowed to settle. He kneels by the massive stone fireplace, his fingers moving deftly with flint and kindling. He coaxes the fire into life. The amber light from the hearth begins to stretch across the stone floor, and you turn to take in your surroundings. Then you see it.
One of the workbenches is a scene of violent upheaval. A bottle of expensive ink has shattered on the floor, the dark liquid spilled in the cracks of the stone and on edge of the Persian rug. Drafting tools, brushes and parts of the miniature scene he had built have been swept aside. You move toward the mess, your footsteps silent. You realize that while you were laughing with Meg, while you sipping coffee and buying your new dress, Erik was drowning in his insecurities. You carefully set the folder down on the table, and kneel.
You begin to gather the items, and among them you find a small, hand-carved wooden figurine. It is a miniature of a singer, her arms outstretched mid-aria. It is crafted with a level of detail that speaks of hours of quiet devotion. Now, a streak of black ink runs across the figure's face and dress, and one of its delicate hands has snapped off in the fall. A pang of sorrow hits you. His fear of losing you has nearly destroyed what he must have spent hours on. As you look around for something to wipe the ink away, you notice that the dark liquid has seeped into the hem of your dress, an uneven black stain against the sunny fabric.
Since the hem is already ruined, you don't hesitate. You lift your arm and use your sleeve to carefully wipe the half dried remains of the ink from the wooden singer’s dress. It is then, as the ink clears, that you truly see the craftsmanship. The slope of the nose, the specific wave of the hair - it isn't just a singer. It is you. The thought that he has spent hours, perhaps days, carving your features out of wood and coloring them in the exact complexion of your skin makes you wonder what you might truly mean to him. You aren't arrogant enough to assume he has composed a grand romance in his head, but holding this tiny, broken version of yourself, you realize you must be more to him than a voice to be trained. The thought makes your heart thrum with sweet uncertainty.
Behind you, the room begins to transform. Erik goes on to light clusters of candles on the candelabras until the oppressive darkness begins to retreat, replaced by a soft, amber haze. When he is finally finished with his task, he turns, and stops dead. The sight of you - the Nightingale of Paris, dressed in the color of the sun - kneeling on his cold, stained floor to pick up the literal debris of his temper, hits him like a physical blow. Shame surges through him, flashing across his features as he realizes the scale of the mess his insecurity has made.
He is at your side in a heartbeat. He doesn't just ask you to stop; he drops to his knees beside you, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. He reaches out as if to pull your hands away, but stops just short of touching your skin, his fingers hovering over yours. "Stop. Please," he rasps, his voice a humiliated whisper. "Y/N, do not. You are... you are ruining your finery for the sake of my madness. Leave it." He begins to snatch up pieces of the scene himself, his jaw set in a hard line of self-loathing. "I am ashamed that you must see this. That you must see me like this."
You carefully set the tiny version of yourself down on the wooden table. Before he can snatch up another piece, you reach out and lay both of your hands over one of his, stopping his frantic movements. He freezes, he staring at your ink-stained fingers enveloping his. "You don’t have to be," you say, your voice a steady, gentle anchor. You hold his gaze for a moment, letting your words sink in. Then you release his hands, and continue picking up the last items. A small knowing smile - and not one of mockery - forms on your face. „This might be the doing of the… dashing baritone…", you quip, stealing a glance at him as your cheeks once again turn a rosy hue, "…but that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve help.", you conclude, your tone light but carrying a sort of finality he cannot argue against.
In Erik’s world, there is no such thing as a simple „mistake." A miscalculation in architecture means a collapse, a missed note means failure, errors are evidence of his unworthiness. He has spent a lifetime believing that he must uphold a perfectly controlled facade in order to have a chance of being tolerated. He feels he cannot afford the luxury of a lapse in character. While a normal man might be forgiven for a tantrum, he fears that for him, every crack in his composure is simply more evidence for the world to loathe him. And by now, he is not sure if he would survive if your kindness turned to hate. "Your dress," he whispers, his eyes darting to the black ruin on your sunny silk. His voice is thick with regret. „It’s just a piece of cloth, Erik.“, you shrug, a casual, fluid motion. "It really doesn't matter much to me." You pause, and add with a playful tilt of your head, "Besides, I didn’t particularly like this one anyway. Yellow is a bit… much… for me, don't you think?"
Erik’s does not answer. He can’t. He is still occupied with how calm and patient you are with him. You are simply there, kneeling in the ink with him. It is a mercy so profound it mends parts of his soul he thought were permanently shattered. He doesn't know how to process it. His gaze flickers to the table where you set the tiny wooden figurine. In his flurry of shame, he hadn't fully realized what you were holding, but now the sight makes his heart stop. The likeness of you is a tangible proof of his obsession, a confession in wood and paint he had not meant to show you. He would have expected for you to be uncomfortable with it, but all he could make out from your expression was sorrow about a piece of his art that had shattered.
Silence falls between you as you both remain kneeling on the floor, the fire crackling nearby. Then, your words from a moment ago finally begin to settle. The words “dashing baritone” echo in the vault of his mind for the hundredth time today.
Earlier, in your room, you had said those weren't your exact words. At the time, the relief of knowing there was no "other man" had been so overpowering that he hadn't looked closer at the words. But now, as he watches you smile at him through the amber candlelight, the truth begins to click into place. You weren't talking about a stranger. You weren't talking about the Vicomte. If the someone you described as ridiculously brilliant is him, then the dashing baritone… was truly also him.He knows you said those weren't your words, yet he now notices that you hadn't denied them. He thinks of the way you looked at him on the boat. A slow, rhythmic thud builds up in his chest. You had so often defied every law he thought was human nature, that he finds himself wondering if you might - against all logic, against all the horrors of his face - actually find him... appealing? A sudden, stifling heat that has nothing to do with the hearth and the hundreds of candles floods his chest. He diverts his daze. The thought is so foreign, so utterly absurd to his worldview, that it feels impossible. Yet he can’t seem to stop that damned naive part of himself from hoping.
The air in the lair has begun to change, the sharp chill replaced by the crackling life of the hearth and the sweet scent of beeswax. But the warmth between you and Erik on the floor is different. It is heavy, fragile, and full of things left unsaid. Erik draws a shaky breath and slowly rises to his feet, offering a hand to help you up. He pulls you up with a strength that is effortless yet cautious, as if he expects you to break under the slightest pressure.
"Wait here," he murmurs, his voice still in that low, vulnerable register. He disappears for a moment into the shadows of what appears to be a kitchenette, returning with a basin of warm water and a soft, white cloth. He doesn't say a word as he kneels before you. He takes your hand in his, his touch a study in contradictions. You have seen, heard and felt the violent hatred he harbors for himself. Yet, as he dips the cloth into the water and begins to dab at the ink on your skin, his movements are unnervingly gentle. He holds your hand as if it was a relic of immeasurable value. He meticulously traces the lines of your palm and the curve of your fingers, his head bowed low. As you look down at him, a profound sadness tugs at your chest. You notice the way he slows whenever he thinks he might have rubbed too harshly, the way he treats you with a reverence he clearly feels he doesn't deserve for himself. What horrors had he endured, you wonder, to make him believe that he was a monster, even if he performs acts of such selfless beauty? What kind of life has a man had if he is brutal with himself while being so tender with another? What kind of life has he known, if he ended up choosing isolation?
Erik seems to sense your wandering thoughts. He pauses, his thumb resting just below your wrist where your pulse thrums steadily. „Erik," you say softly, your mind wandering to the lonely brilliance of the life he built. "Are you... are you happy here? Living like this?" Erik stops his motions. One of his hands still holds on to you, the other drops to his side.
"Happy?" he repeats, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. He looks up at you with a raw honesty, his voice dropping to a hollow register. "Where else would I go, Y/N?" His gaze wanders back down at his hand still holding yours. Your hand is clean, though your sleeve remains a battleground of black and yellow. He looks at the ruined silk one last time, a shadow of regret and something older, deeper, crossing his face. Finally, he stands and sets the cloth aside. He turns toward the workbench where the silver-and-black folder lies.
You look at him - this man of infinite talent and breathtaking intellect - and you feel a sharp pang of anger at the world above for making him feel that isolation is not a choice, but his only option. You wanted to protest, to tell him there must be more, that he deserves more, but the hollow look in his eyes kept you silent. “It is time," he says, his back to you. His fingers hover over the leather for a heartbeat before opening it. Erik shifts, leaning towards a tall, narrow cabinet carved from dark ebony. He retrieves a heavy stack of parchment, the edges of it frayed. He carries it to the folder, his hands hovering over the open leather. "I have labored over these pages for more years than I care to count." he says, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. He turns back to you, the candlelight catching the shimmer of insecurity in his eyes. "I have written them in the dead of night. No other soul has ever heard a note of it."
He begins to slide the first few pages into the folder, the silvered corners shimmering in the candlelight. "It is... unfinished," he admits, his jaw tightening as he continues sliding the pages into their new home. "Perhaps it will always be so." He pauses, his gaze softening as it lands on your face. "It is not... it is not 'pretty' music, mon ange. It does not seek to please the ear. But perhaps... perhaps this will tell you what I cannot.“ He pauses for a second, gaze cast down once more. Then, he shakes his head slightly, and moves to pull a high-backed velvet chair into the warm glow of the organ’s candelabras. It is close enough that the vibration of the pipes breathing will course through you, but far enough that he has the space to lose himself while playing.
"Sit," he murmurs. "Please." You nod softly, your heart aching at the sheer, lonely brilliance of the life he built. Your yellow - and a tiny bit black - silk pools around you as you take your seat. He moves to the organ and sets the folder before him, opening it. He sits on the organ bench, his back perfectly straight in the shirt and waistcoat he is wearing. He takes a breath, his fingers hovering above the keys for a heartbeat.
Then, he strikes the first chord. It is not the sweet, melodic opera of the Opera Populaire. It is a thunderous, dissonant sound that vibrates through the stone floor and into your very bones. It is the melody of a storm brewing, and it is unlike anything you had ever heard. The music is unapologetically complex, shifting from haunting, lonely melodies to grand, sweeping movements that feel like they could tear the stone of the cavern apart. As his fingers fly across the manuals, his body sways with the music.
You sit perfectly still, your heart thrumming in time with the deep pedal notes. You spend a moment just looking at him, and in a way, it feels like you are truly seeing him for the very first time. You see him as the man who turned his pain into a symphony. And as you watch him, you realize that despite the discord, despite the darkness of the notes... it is the most beautiful thing you have ever heard.
You close your eyes and let the music course through you. The stone and candlelight around you dissolves into nothingness. The lair falls away, and you find yourself standing in an echoing void. The music is no longer something you hear; it is something you inhabit. In every jarring dissonance, you feel his pain and loneliness, as if the notes are questions he has screamed into the heavens, only to receive no answer but the echo of his own voice. You feel the staggering vastness between the phrases, a hollow space that speaks of the absolute certainty that no one is there. No one listens. No one is coming to save him. It is the cold reality of a man who has always been deeply, irrevocably alone. Every haunting melody is filled with longing. Every note holds a desperate wish for love, for safety, for the simple, human right to feel okay. You hear everything he is trying to hide. It feels overwhelming, and like starvation at the same time. It feels like dark magic, a potent spell that courses through your veins and grasps your heart in a chokehold. You feel a warmth at your lower lashes as tears trace slow paths down your cheeks. They are no tears of pity, but tears of grief, a mourning for the years he spent in this hell. There is a staggering beauty in his brokenness.
The final, thunderous chord strikes, a massive wall of sound that seems to vibrate the very marrow of your bones, until it slowly, painfully, decays. The only sound left is the dying hiss of the organ pipes and the ragged, heavy breathing of the man at the console. Erik’s chest heaves, his shoulders hunched as he stares at the keys, waiting for the verdict.
"It is... as I said," he whispers, his voice sounding small and fragile after the thunder of the organ. "It is not pretty. It is a monster's lament." When he finally turns and sees the tears on your face, the panic in his eyes is instantaneous. He rises from the organ bench in a sudden, jerky motion. "I have distressed you," he rasps, his voice cracking. "I am a fool. I should have known better than to-"
"No," you say softly, cutting through his rising panic. You rise from the velvet chair, the silk of your dress whispering against the stone as you make your way to him. "Erik, you haven't distressed me.", you say with a small smile despite the wet streaks on your cheeks. You stand before him now, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. "It is just...“, you pause, and try again to somehow express the magnitude of what you just felt. „I don't think I have ever been moved quite like this." You release a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a shuddering breath before looking into his eyes, letting him see the honesty in your own.
There is a storm of emotion in his eyes as he processes your words. Relief, wonder, disbelief, fear, and still - above all - shame. Shame for everything that he is, a frantic need to apologize for the shape of his own soul. It makes your heart ache for him. You stand before him, looking up into his brown eyes, and without even thinking much about it, begin to cautiously raise your hand toward his exposed cheek - the side the mask doesn't cover. Every thought process he had until that moment is put to a halt. You pause, your palm hovering just an inch from his skin, giving him every chance to recoil, to vanish into the shadows. For a heartbeat, you see that very instinct in his eyes, the lifelong habit of flinching away from human touch. You watch him closely, gauging his reaction to make sure you aren’t crossing any line he does not want you to cross. But he stays. He barely seems to breathe.
Gently, you lay your hand against his cheek. His skin is warm - warmer than you expected - and for a heartbeat, he stops breathing entirely. Then, with a low, shuddering sigh, he leans into your touch ever so slightly. He closes his eyes, his lashes fluttering against the mask as he allows himself this impossible luxury. You stay like that for a second, aware of how strongly he reacts to a touch so simple. You let your thumb trace a slow, careful path over the line of his cheekbone. "It would be an awful injustice to call what you just shared a 'monster's lament'." you whisper, and he opens his eyes to find yours looking up at him with conviction and adoration. If he didn’t think himself so utterly undeserving, he would do anything to have more moments like this. Moments of you touching and looking at him as though he were someone worth your attention. Hell, if he weren’t such a damned coward, he would pull you close and never let you go.
Reluctantly, you pull your hand away, making Erik curse himself. He sees you turning to look at the pages that now reside in the folder, struggling to find words that don't feel too small for what you just experienced. "I have never felt a loneliness so profound, Erik. Such pain... and such desperate, beautiful longing.“, you sigh, your voice trembling slightly as you continue, „It was suffocating… and terrifying. And it was utterly magnificent."
Erik looks at you, his expression a chaotic map of wonder and agonizing doubt. He feels more clearly seen than he has ever been in his life, and part of him wants to fall to your knees for it. Yet the voice in his head, the one that has sustained him for decades, screams that he is pathetic. That there is nothing worthwhile, and certainly nothing magnificent about him. You cannot possibly mean it. You are being kind to the hideous monster that he is because somehow, despite everything, you don't know any better.
He draws away, pacing toward the hearth, his back to you. "Magnificent?" he repeats, his voice bitter with a sudden, sharp edge of self-loathing. "You hear the pitiful song of a monster that has spent decades craving a crumb of humanity, and you call it magnificent? It is pathetic, Y/N."
„Not at all!“, you interject, voice rising slightly in genuine disbelief. His head whips towards you in an instant, his face a mixture of fury and deep beneath it, sadness. Seeing his expression you soften, plopping down onto the organ bench. „I genuinely don’t understand why you think of yourself the way you do.“ you say softly, honestly.
Erik stops, watching the dancing orange flames for a moment before turning back to look at you over his shoulder. „Why?“, he repeats, his voice so utterly hollow and broken that he seems to be an entirely different person. "Where should I start, Y/N?" he asks, a mirthless laugh escaping him. "Should I start with the mother who could not bear to look at me unless I wore a rag over my face? Or the cages I was kept in so that men could pay a sous to see the enfant du diable?“ The devils child. Erik gestures to himself a mocking, theatrical way, his voice dripping with venom.
He turns fully to face you now, and beneath the cruel, distant act of the showman, you see the raw honesty in his gaze - a testament to the trust you have earned. „I have been dragged around the world," he says, his voice dropping to a low, rhythmic register as if he is reciting a dark fairy tale. "I was a curiosity in a freak show - the mort-vivant shown to men as a trapped beast. I have been an architect of horrors, an assassin in a palace for a king who later ordered me dead so I could never tell his secrets." He looks around at the vast, candlelit cavern, his gesture now weary rather than theatrical. „No matter where I went, the world greeted me the same. They did not see a man; they saw a monster. So, I built a world where I did not have to be seen." He meets your eyes, his expression stripped away of every last defense. „I am not 'happy' here, Y/N... I am simply away.““
You don’t even realize you’ve started crying again until a hot tear splashes onto your hand, followed quickly by another. Your heart doesn't just ache for him, it stops. Your brows furrow deeply, your gaze dropping to the floor as the image of him - a mere child - being caged and shunned burns into your mind. You shake your head. A cold, viscous wave of disgust forms in your stomach, not for the man before you, but for a world that could be so cruel.
A thousand thoughts race through your mind. You want to ask how he escaped, where else he has been, and who all of those people were so you could scream at them yourself. You have a a tidal wave of protests building in your chest about the injustice of his life. Your mouth opens, a sentence forming, but you close it again. Erik watches you, his brown eyes wide and shimmering with an agonizing uncertainty. He tracks every flicker of your expression, noticing the way you seem to ponder your words, the way your breath hitches as you battle your own fury. He looks like a man waiting for a blow, yet he cannot seem to look away from you.
The silence of the lair stretches while you choose your next words very, very carefully. Your chest heaves as you get up, taking a few deliberate strides to him. You close the distance until you are standing before him, just a step or two away. Despite the tears on your face and your shaken form, your expression is fierce and unyielding.
"Nothing," you say, your voice ringing with an absolute, terrifying conviction. "Nothing behind your mask, and nothing you may have done even remotely justifies how you were treated." You pause, your gaze traveling from his one eye to the other and back, ensuring he hears the truth in the marrow of his bones. "Nothing.“ you repeat.
Erik stares at you, his chest heaving as the air in the lair seems to thin. His long, elegant fingers begin to fidget nervously. You notice his distress and reach out, intending to cup his face, but the moment your hand moves, his reflex is instantaneous. He snaps his hand up, catching your wrists in mid-air. It is a flash of defensive instinct from a man who expects every approaching hand to be a strike or a taunt. But the grip isn't harsh or fearful; it is unsure, his hands trembling against your skin. His brown eyes widen, searching yours with a desperate, frantic intensity, looking for any mockery behind your kindness. When he finds only your unyielding honesty, his grip softens. He doesn't drop your hands. Instead, he shakily guides your palms the rest of the way until they meet his cheeks. As your fingers touch the are below his mask, finding the skin of his jaw just beneath the edge, he lets out something between a gasp and a whimper. The tip of your finger brushes against the uneven, ridged texture of scarred skin, a part of him he has spent a lifetime guarding. He does not remember ever being touched there, and if he was, certainly not with this kind of reverent gentleness. He freezes, his eyes locking onto yours as his entire soul seems to short-circuit under the contact.
“These things are not a reflection of you," you continue, stressing the word until it feels like a shield between him and his past, "but of how cruel, heartless, and truly inhuman the others were.“ You drop your hands from his face, but instead of backing away, you take one more tiny step towards him. You want him to feel the heat of your anger; you want it to burn away the cold shame he’s carried for decades. “Every single person who stood on the other side of that cage..." You hold his gaze as you look up at him, wanting him to feel the iron-clad honesty of your words. You take a deep, jagged breath to steady the tremor in your voice. "Everyone who made you so certain that you are the monster..." Your brows furrow, your voice dropping to a low, lethal register. "...shall rot in hell, Erik. Every. Last. One." Your breathing is heavy, your heart hammering against your ribs with the force of your fury on his behalf.
Erik stands frozen, his hands finally going still as he absorbs the shock of your words. He has spent his life believing he was the one on trial, that he is the monster whose existence had to be justified or hidden. But in one breath, you have flipped the world on its axis. You aren't judging him; you are sentencing his tormentors.
A choked, broken sound escapes his throat. He tries to look away, to hide the raw, shimmering vulnerability in his eyes, but he finds he cannot break the connection. "You..." he begins, his voice rough and barely audible. He swallows hard. "No one has ever... ever been angry for me.“, he whispers, the words catching in his throat.
He extends a shaky hand, his fingers hovering in the space between you as if he still does not believe that he is worthy of touching you. You reach out, catching his hand in yours. His skin is slightly rough from the woodcarving, yet his touch is incredibly light. You guide his palm to your own cheek, letting him feel the warmth of your skin and the dampness of the tears he caused. He lets out a breath he seems to have been holding forever. You lean into the contact as his thumb tentatively brushes against your cheekbone, a mirror to the way you touched him moments ago.
You slowly reach up and take his hand into both of yours, keeping it held firmly between you. "Well," you say, a sharp edge returning to your tone as you give his hand a purposeful squeeze. "It’s about bloody time then, don't you think?" Erik blinks, the sheer common-sense bluntness of your response catching him off guard. A small, shaky laugh escapes him; a sound of pure, startled relief. As his laugh dies down he looks at you for a moment, his head tilting as if he’s trying to memorize the way you look right now. "You truly are convinced," he whispers, a hint of awe returning to his voice as he strokes his thumb over your palm. "Somehow, in this madness... you seem to truly see… a man. Not a monster. Not a ghost."
"Of course," you whisper back, the fire in your eyes softening into something infinitely tender. "I don't believe in ghosts, Erik. But I do believe in the hauntingly beautiful melodies you play. In the music you... the music we make." You offer him a small, genuine smile. At the word "we", his brown eyes dilate, his mind clearly racing to process the implication of being part of an 'us'. Erik stands very still for a moment, his gaze fixed on you as if trying to reconcile the woman standing in his home right now with the one he had spent years watching. He thought he knew much about you from the start, but you were - you are - so much more. You are gentle and inviting, while he is distant and inept. You are bold, unafraid, while his fears consume him. You are beyond beautiful, and he is… him.
You take a small step back, releasing his hand to take a few steps towards his organ again. "Besides," you add, your tone lightened by a touch of wit as you gesture dismissively, „I’ve heard far worse stories about Joseph than I ever have about you." Erik freezes, the heavy atmosphere broken by the mention of the stagehand. A soft, genuine laugh escapes him. It is a low, warm sound that transforms his entire presence. The tension in his shoulders eases, and he shakes his head slightly, a flicker of something like joy in his eye. It makes your heart skip a beat as you glance at him over your shoulder. "Joseph Buquet," he says, the name dripping with a playful disdain, "A drunkard with the imagination of a gutter rat and the morals of a stray cat.“
You let out a genuine laugh at his description of Buquet, the sound echoing against the stone and mingling with his own low chuckle. You nod in agreement, your eyes crinkling with amusement as you look at him over your shoulder. „Quite so, quite so.“, you say, in a posh voice, "A truly adequate description, Monsieur..." You falter.
The sentence hangs in the air, unfinished. You realize that you are standing in the heart of this man’s home - you have touched his face, wept for his childhood, and felt the music of his very soul through the keys of his organ - yet you do not even know his full name. "It is strange," you say softly, a thoughtful smile playing on your lips as you turn fully to face him. "You were there, more or less, for half of my life. Hell, in some ways, I feel I have known you forever. And yet... I realize I don’t even know your name." Erik’s laughter dies away, though the softness in his eyes remains. He looks at you for a long moment, his head tilting as he takes in the sight of you standing there, comfortable and vibrant amidst his shadows. "Destler," he says quietly. „No one has asked my name in decades. I had almost forgotten the sound of it myself." A profound sense of honor settles in your chest. You offer him a sincere smile. You take the edges of your ink-stained yellow silk and drop into a small curtsy. "It is a distinct pleasure to finally meet you, Monsieur Destler.", you say, your voice warm and colored with a touch of wit. "The pleasure," he begins, "is entirely mine, Mademoiselle." He is trying to mirror your lightheartedness, but his voice wavers with an emotion he can't quite suppress.
He looks toward the hearth, where the fire has settled into a deep orange. In the quiet, you can see the conflict in his brown eyes. He looks as though he wants to say a thousand things; he wants to offer you another song, to show you the leather-bound treasures in his library, to simply sit in the silence and watch the firelight dance across your face. But then, he clears his throat. "It is late," he notes, with a weary undertone. "I have subjected you to a night that would have drained the spirit of a lesser woman. Your dress..." he pauses, his eyes lingering on the ink-stained yellow silk, "is a casualty of my temper. And while I find I am loath to let this evening end just yet, I cannot ignore the hour."
He takes a step closer, his presence commanding yet careful. "Tomorrow, the rehearsals for the new production begin, and you must be rested. There are rumors that La Carlotta is on her way back to Paris. But it seems her carriage has been delayed due to a series of... unfortunate mechanical failures. I suspect she will not return for another day at least. Perhaps two.", he continues, a small, satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That means the weight of the lead role falls upon your shoulders. You will need your strength."
You meet his gaze, a knowing look spreading across your face. You are very much aware whose hands caused that delay and frankly, you don't mind the sabotage one bit. "I see," you say, a quiet hum of amusement in your voice. You pause, pondering your next words, "A new lead role... that sounds as though I shall require more lessons, does it not?" You feel a sudden spark of boldness. "In fact," you say, looking up at him through your lashes, "Who knows how complex the new production will be? I might even require... more frequent lessons. Daily, perhaps?" Erik freezes, secretly thrilled at your proposal. He hadn't expected you to want to see him more. So very frequently, at that. A soft, breathless chuckle escapes him. For a moment, he looks a little dazed by his own luck. "I believe," he says finally, his voice dropping to a low register, "that such an arrangement could be... managed."
He turns then, gesturing toward the pier where the boat waits in the shadows. "Come. The night is waning, and I have to deliver the Prima Donna safely to her bed." He guides you to the boat, his hand firm and steady on yours as he helps you step into the vessel. He pushes off from the stone pier, and the lair slowly fades into darkness behind you.
𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖑, pt.10
phantom of the opera x reader
AN: Im on a roll bc apparently this chapter has yet another 6000+ words oop. I did not proofread and side note; English is not my first language so... bear with me. I did however have a lot of fun writing this one. Hope you enjoy.
Word count: 6201
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜
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10 - 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖆𝖋𝖙 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖊𝖛𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖉
The light filters through the heavy silk curtains of the Prima Donna’s suite, casting a soft, golden haze over the room. You wake with an unusual lightness in your chest. Having spent years navigating the Opera’s secret arteries at three in the morning, the late night hasn't drained you. If anything, the memory of the late hours spent with Erik seems to have replaced the usual fatigue with a quiet, humming energy. Behind the silvered glass of the mirror, a shadow remains perfectly still. Erik had vowed to let you sleep, to grant you the peace of your day off. Then again, he felt like the thought of your hand over his is the only thing keeping his heart beating. He found himself drawn back up the hidden stairs, a ghost tethered to the living, unable to breathe unless he was near the source of his new-found life. You sit up and stretch, sensing his presence immediately. You offer the glass a slow, soft smile; a silent good morning to the man you know is watching.
Then, a sharp, rhythmic knocking at your door announces your guest. Meg Giry breezes in, followed by a sheepish-looking young page boy carrying a silver tray laden with a Prima Donna’s breakfast: fresh brioche, chocolates, fruit, and a pot of steaming tea. "No dining hall for the woman of the hour," Meg declares, dismissing the boy and setting the tray on the low table near the window. She sits at the side of your bed, looking decidedly smug. "You are the talk of the House, Y/N," Meg begins, already reaching for a grape from your tray. "The gossip is spreading faster than a fire. It seems our dear Vicomte was seen pacing like a sentry in front of your door last night. Word is, when he finally retreated at midnight he looked positively miserable." You pour her and yourself a cup of tea, your expression carefully neutral. „Half the ballet girls think that you’re heartless, probably because most of them would give their right toe for a single glance from a de Chagny.“, Meg quips, eliciting a laugh from you. „And the men? Mercy. After your performance and officially breaking a de Chagnys heart, every suitor in Paris now wants to be 'the one' to finally crack your reputation as untouchable."
„Bloody lovely“, you reply dryly, taking a bite of the brioche. Meg giggles, leaning closer, her eyes dancing with mischief. „Speaking of which… how did you celebrate that ethereal performance of yours? Did you spend the night... 'reading' again?" She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. You feel a sudden heat in your cheeks, rolling your eyes playfully. "Good heavens, Meg!" you hiss, shooting her a glare. "It is our day off," you say firmly, trying to steer the conversation back to safety. "No talk of performances, rehearsals, and the daily life of the Opera.“
„Quite right.“, Meg agrees, and throws her hands up in mock surrender „If I have to look at another tutu, or hear a single bar of Gounod, I shall throw myself into the Seine. So - if you do not have plans with your dashing baritone already - we are going to go into town, we are finding a café that doesn't smell like old velvet, and we are going to forget the stage exists." You turn a shade of red that rivals the rose on your vanity, letting out a startled chuckle. „Alright, alright, let’s go.“, you say, getting out of bed to pick a modest day-dress of light yellow silk.
Erik freezes. The phrase dashing baritone echoes in his mind, distorted and cruel. Not even just a dashing baritone. Your dashing baritone. „Your" implies possession. It implies a history. It implies a man who walks in the sun, a man whose face is not a nightmare, a man who has earned the right to be called "dashing." Eriks mind collapses into a black hole of agonizing jealousy. He thinks of every male singer in the company, every wealthy patron with a deep voice who might have approached you behind his back. How? he wonders, his hands clenching into claws against the stone. When did she see him? Were there rehearsals I did not watch? Was it in the streets of Paris she knows so well? Was the touch of your hand merely a pitying gesture while you dreamed of another?
As you and Meg leave the room, Erik retreats like a wounded animal into the lightless depths of the cellars. He finds himself in the dark of his workshop. In a sudden and swift motion, his hands sweep across a workbench, sending architectural tools and jars of ink crashing to the floor. He collapses into his chair, holding his hands over his ears as the voice in his head torments him. "Dashing," he snarls to the empty room, the word a bitter rasp. He realizes that as long as you are out there, in the city, he is utterly powerless. He cannot protect you, he cannot watch you, and he certainly cannot compete with a "dashing" man who can buy you a coffee in the midday sun. The hope you gave him has turned into a weapon he is wielding against himself.
As you walk through the bustling streets of the Quartier de l'Opéra, you notice the way heads turn. It isn't the crude gawking you’d feared, but a respectful, curious hum. Since your performances, Paris has given you a moniker — the „Nightingale“. The woman who has appeared out of the chorus with the voice of an angel, giving the Opera Populaire a soul it never had before.
"Look at them," Meg whispers, nudging you as a group of young dandies tip their hats as you pass. "How does it feel, Y/N? To be the talk of Paris?"
"It feels... strange," you admit, pulling your shawl a bit tighter despite the warmth. You remember a time, not that long ago, when you could walk these same streets and be utterly invisible. "To go from being someone people look through to this... i don’t know, Meg. I have never aimed for the limelight."
"Perhaps not," Meg says, linking her arm firmly with yours. "But the limelight found you anyway. And honestly? It’s about time. You’ve spent long enough in the shadows."
The afternoon is spent in a whirlwind of shops. Meg is in her element, picking out ribbons, smelling expensive pomades, and eventually buying a pair of delicate gloves that she insists are a "necessity for a prima donna's best friend." Finally, she drags you into a small, high-end boutique tucked away from the main thoroughfare. "You have all this new coin, Y/N, and you’re still dressing like a chorus girl on your day off," Meg chides, pulling a dress from a mahogany rack. "Look at this. Try it on. For me?" It is a crimson dress, the color of the rose Erik gave you. The fabric is high-quality blend that drapes beautifully, featuring a square neckline that is elegant without being scandalous. The color is a contrast to your fair skin and dark waves of hair. You emerge from the dressing room. "Oh, Y/N," Meg breathes, her usual mischief replaced by genuine awe. "You look wonderful. You have to get it. Think of it as a gift to yourself for surviving Hannibal." You look at your reflection, and for a second, you think of the lessons to come - the way the candlelight will dance over the fabric, and the way Erik’s eyes will widen when he sees that you chose his color to wear. "I’ll take it," you say softly, a small, secret smile playing on your lips.
You eventually steer Meg away from the main boulevards and into a quiet, narrow street in the Marais, where the shops are older and smell of cedar and frankly, a bit of dust. You stop in front of a master bookbinder’s atelier.
Inside, the walls are lined with parchment and hides of every texture. You spend a long time looking before your eyes settle on a folder of midnight-black leather. It is magnificent. The grain is supple yet sturdy, and the corners are reinforced with ornate silver flourishes that twist like ivy. It makes you think of him immediately. "What on earth is that for?" Meg asks, peering over your shoulder as you run your fingers over the cool, embossed surface. "A bit somber for a diary, isn't it?"
"It is …a gift," you say, your voice soft.“
A small, knowing "O" forms on her lips, and she leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "A gift for a certain tutor?" she repeats, her tone playful.
"That madman“, you say with a playful affection, „keeps stacks full of his scores all over the place. Whereas his music… it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before," you confess, your gaze drifting to the window. "It’s raw, and above all it is honest. When he plays, it’s as if the world finally stops pretending and just… breathes. His compositions certainly deserve a proper home.“ Meg leans against the counter, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face. "Oh, Y/N," she breathes, shaking her head. "Listen to yourself."
"Listen to what?"
"To the woman who did not even deem the Vicomte a man interesting enough practically glowing. You sound like you’re completely under your tutors spell. You’ve completely forgotten to be cynical." You roll your eyes at her, a bemused huff escaping your lips. „I’m just… He’s just… extraordinarily talented.“
„Talent alone doesn't make a woman’s voice go all velvet like that," Meg whispers, her eyes twinkling, yet she leaves the topic alone after. A slow, undeniable heat begins to climb your cheeks as you ponder her words. You don't deny it. You can't. As you clutch the folder to your chest, you are aware you aren't just buying a gift for a teacher. You are buying a home for a part of his soul, one that you are starting to care for more than you intended to.
In the late afternoon you sit at a café, the nearby river glistening in the afternoon sun. "You’re doing it again," Meg says, pointing her fork at you. "That dreamy, faraway look.“ "I’m just enjoying the coffee, Meg," you reply, though you can almost taste the lie on your tongue. "Rubbish." Meg leans in, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "It’s him, isn't it?“ You sip your coffee, trying to keep your expression neutral.
„You’re one to talk,“ you quip after a short moment. „I have heard rumors, Meg Giry, that you’ve been rather distracted yourself. Something about a gentleman from the celebrations?" Meg’s cheeks instantly flood with a rosy hue. She tries to look indignant, but a fawning smile breaks through. "Oh, hush! It’s far too soon to say anything... but he has the most remarkable eyes, Y/N. Blue as the sky, and his hair! It’s unruly, like he’s just come in from a storm. He even laughed at my jokes.“ You watch her, a soft smile tugging at your lips. It is a relief to see her so happy, even as you begin to feel the pull of the shadows calling you back.
On the walk back to the Opera Populaire the sun begins to dip, casting long shadows across the stone facades. As the massive silhouette of the Opera House looms over the street, you feel a mixture of comfort and excitement. You part ways with Meg at the stage door, promising to see her for morning rehearsals. You retreat to your room with your arms full of paper bags, expecting to feel that familiar, prickling sensation of being watched.
But as you click the door shut, the room is… silent. The air is still. The silvered glass of the mirror is just a mirror. You set the bags down on your vanity, your eyes immediately wandering to the rose. You wonder what he is doing for a brief moment, then you ponder your options. You could wait for him to show, but your heart is too restless. You could trigger the latch and descend to his lair, but the thought of wading through the water of the lake, uninvited at that, feels neither right nor particularly appealing. Then, another idea forms. You grab a piece of parchment from your desk and scribble a few words in your neatest hand. Then, you make your way through the winding corridors toward the main stage.
Deep beneath the stage, the lair is cold, and feels oppressively empty. Erik sits at his desk, the scratch of his quill erratic and sharp. Since you left the building, he tried to focus on composing, but the notes fall apart like ashes. His mind is a frantic carousel of fears. Where are you? Are you sitting in a park? At a café, surrounded by admirers? Are you with Meg… or with that dashing baritone? The thought of another man being close to you, perhaps even touching you, makes the inkwell rattle as he slams his fist onto the mahogany. He fears the worst: That the sun will remind you of how much you belong to the world above, and how little you belong… here.
But then, a sound - a melody even - travels down the vents. It is a a shimmering cascade of notes played on the grand piano on the main stage, which should be empty on a day like today. Erik rises, his cloak swirling around him like a storm cloud. He moves briskly to the rafters above the stage. He is looking down from the dizzying heights of the fly gallery to the stage. And indeed, there you are.
You sit at the piano, your fingers moving with a grace that makes Erik’s breath catch in his throat. He had seen and heard you play the broken piano in the storage room before, but hearing what melodies you are able to carve out of a fully functioning instrument once again reminds him of how your musical talents almost rival his own. He is so captivated by the sight of you, so consumed by the way the light catches your hair, that every thought he had before, every bit of his surroundings, simply everything else seems to fade. The last note is played, echoes, and then there is silence. To his surprise you tilt your head up, your eyes searching the dark, tangled heights of the scenery. You simply look, a knowing, gentle expression on your face, as if you can see him through the layers of shadow. Only then he notices the small scrap of paper you have wedged exactly where he stands, exactly where he had severed the rope of the backdrop that almost crushed Carlotta. His fingers tremble as he reaches for the note.
Meet me in my room.
A sudden, stifling heat floods his chest and cheeks. You have spent your day in the most beautiful city in the world, surrounded by friends and admirers and the light of the sun, and your first thought upon returning… is to call for him? He does not have time to even begin to comprehend it, as a voice pulls him out of his thoughts.
"Well, well. If it isn't our Nightingale, out past her bedtime." The voice is thick, carrying the scent of cheap whiskey. Joseph Buquet emerges from the wings, his face flushed and his gait unsteady. He sneers at you, his eyes traveling over you with a lecherous, sluggish intent. Up in the rafters, Erik’s hands grip the iron railing so hard the metal groans. "A pretty little thing like you shouldn't be wandering the stage alone," he slurs, stepping into your space. "Don't you know the Opera Ghost likes to snatch up girls? He’ll take you down to the cellar and turn you into a doll." You raise an eyebrow at him, not impressed with his antics. „The Opera Ghost would certainly be more pleasant company than the one I have right now,“ you say, your voice ringing with a cold, sharp disdain. Erik's eyes, which had burned with a murderous, incandescent rage, widen at your boldness, at the hidden praise in your words. Joseph reaches out then, gripping your wrist, his dirty fingers digging into your skin. "Don't be like that, sweetheart. Let me lead you back to your dressing room. You can show me how talented that mouth of yours really is…“ Erik is less than a breath away from dropping the counterweights, from ending the life of the drunkard who dares to breathe the same air as you. But then, in a flash of motion that leaves even him stunned, you grab Joseph’s thumb, twisting his hand with a sickeningly efficient snap of leverage, and swing him around. In one fluid move, you have him stumble to the ground before you, arm pinned behind his back, sending him pressed face down on the dusty floorboards.
"This 'pretty little thing' knows how to defend herself from disgusting, drunken pigs such as yourself,“ you hiss near his ear, your voice low and dangerous. "I suggest you keep your distance.“ Erik stares down at you, his rage momentarily replaced by breathless awe. He has seen your softness, your empathy, and your genius. He has seen your boldness and the fire inside you, too, but never like this. You are no naive girl to be protected, you are a force of nature. He sees you getting up, smoothing your skirts and walking away as if nothing happened, leaving Joseph a mumbling mess on the floor.
When you reach your dressing room, the air is still humming with the confidence you carry, having easily pinned Joseph down. The mirror clicks the moment the lock of your door slides into place. Erik steps out with long, deliberate strides, his expression a mix of fury and concern as his eyes scan your form. He doesn't say a word as he carefully reaches for your hand, his touch gentle but firm as he turns your wrist over in the light. He traces the faint, red marks left by Buquet’s fingers with the tip of his thumb, his jaw set in a hard, dangerous line. "That man is a parasite," he rasps, his voice vibrating with a dark resonance. "I should have let the rope find him years ago." He looks up at you, wonder and awe replacing the anger in his eyes. "But you…“, a low chuckle escapes him. „The way you handled that cur. The fire inside you burns brighter than I ever imagined.“
You bite the inside corner of your lip, trying to fight the smile wanting to spread. The adoration in his tone is so real, so palpable. Adoration for a side of you that you aren’t entirely proud of, at that. You look at him, feeling his hand still holding yours. For a heartbeat, the world seems to shrink until there is only the warmth of his touch and the rhythmic thrum of your heart against his skin. He leans in just a fraction, the scent of you - the soft, comforting sweetness of vanilla mingled with the sharp, lingering tang of roasted coffee - hits him like a physical blow. It is the smell the world outside. It is a reminder that you were gone.
Erik’s hand jerks away as if he’s been burned. He draws back sharply, his cloak whipping around him as he retreats toward the shadows near the window, turning his back to the room. "The Nightingale returns to her cage," he rasps, his voice dripping with a bitterness that stings. He stares out at the sliver of evening sky visible through the glass, his shoulders tense. "Tell me, Mademoiselle. Was the coffee sweet? Was the company... dashing enough to make you forget this place?"
To make you forget me? he thinks, but does not dare ask.
And once again, you see right through him. The jealousy is almost palpable, and the raw pain beneath it makes your heart ache. He must have spent the last hours questioning how you feel about him, and came to the conclusion that he means nothing more than a mere placeholder to you, if anything. Yet the irony of it all, that he was spiraling over a man who doesn't even exist - over himself, really - becomes clear to you. A blush creeps up your neck, closely followed by a hearty, genuine laugh that bubbles up before you can stop it. "A truly impossible question," you sheepishly admit, your voice light with amusement. "Contradictory, even." Contradictory? Erik’s silhouette stiffens, his brows furrowing. „You know, Erik," you say, taking a step towards him and the vanity where your bags stand. "For a genius, you can be rather daft sometimes." Erik blinks, taken aback. He was prepared for you to get defensive, for a cold dismissal, or even pity. What he was not prepared for was an insult so casually thrown at him. He slowly turns his head, his visible eye widening in genuine, stunned silence. He has been called many things in his life by many people. But no one in his entire life had ever dared call him daft. "Daft?" he finally repeats, the word sounding hollow and confused in his gravelly voice.
You take another step towards him, amusement twinkling in your eyes. „I’m afraid so. if you truly think if I have forgotten about you.“, you answer firmly, looking him in the eye.“ A mixture of shame mingled with a sweet relief creeps us his neck, staining his cheeks a stark red. He realizes how gracefully you bypass his biting words, how you do not shame him for how he acts. You do not even bother to fight his anger; you simply reach through the cold distance he produces to mend the terrified heart underneath. "In fact," you say, your voice a steady gentle anchor in his storm of self-loathing, "the reason I called you here might prove just that, if my word is not enough."
You reach for the blue bag on the vanity. Erik’s eyes follow your every movement, looking to some degree perplexed, still. His fingers, still hidden in the folds of his cloak, twitch in time with the rustle of the paper. You bite the inside corner of your lip, a flurry of nerves dancing in your stomach. "I saw this today in a quiet corner of the city." You step closer, holding it out to him. „And thought of you immediately.“
Erik's eyes move from the bag to your face, then back. The blue paper bag hangs in the air between you, a small bridge over a massive emotional chasm. Erik just stares, his body locked in a state of petrified silence. He doesn’t reach for it. He doesn't even seem to breathe. He is a man who can navigate the most complex architectural traps and compose an opera of a hundred pieces. But the simple act of being handed something out of kindness has completely short-circuited his reality. His fingers twitch rhythmically against the velvet of his cloak.
You wait, your own heart thudding a nervous rhythm against your ribs. The silence stretches, heavy with everything he isn't saying. Finally, you let out a tiny breath. "Erik," you murmur, your smile widening just a fraction, "This is the part where you’re supposed to look inside and see if I have any taste at all." His eyes snap up to yours, searching for any trace of mockery. He is looking for the catch, the joke or pity. But all he finds is the steady warmth in your gaze. He silently asks for permission with a look so vulnerable it makes your throat tighten. You nod, encouraging him.
He finally reaches out. His hands are trembling violently. His fingers briefly brush yours to take the handles with a slow, reverent caution. He pulls back the protective paper so carefully as if he was handling a literal beating heart beneath it. When he sees the black leather and silver ornaments glinting in the candlelight, a choked intake of breath escapes him.
He sets the bag on the vanity with clumsy, shaking hands and carefully lifts the folder out. His eyes dart across the silver ivy. He shakes his head lightly, as if trying to convince himself he isn’t allowed to have this. "You..." he breathes, his voice cracking to a raw whisper. He runs his thumb over the supple grain of the leather. "While you were..." He stops, unable to find the words. He tries again, his chest heaving under his waistcoat. "This whole time... I was..." He doesn't finish. He can't. The realization that while he was pacing his cell like a beast, convinced you were laughing with a pretty stranger, you were actually standing in a quiet corner of Paris, looking at silver ivy and thinking of him... it is a mercy he isn't prepared for.
Overwhelmed, his legs seem to lose their strength. He steps backward, sinking onto the edge of the velvet daybed. He sits there with his head hung low, his shoulders hunched as he stares at the folder in his lap, his fingers still trembling violently. You take in his form before you, brows furrowing slightly in concern. After a moment, you bridge the distance and sit down beside him, close enough that your arm brushes against his. You feel a jolt go through him, before he slightly relaxes against your proximity. „Erik?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper. "What are you thinking?"
He is silent for a long time, his gaze never leaving the black leather in his lap. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, stripped of every defense. "I am thinking...,“ he breathes, the words barely more than a haunted vibration in the air. It sounds exhausted and achingly thin. He doesn't look up, his expression hollow. „...that I know what I am. I am a pathetic creature, who has spent these past hours consumed by the mere thought of another man near you, wallowing in self-hatred and murderous fantasies. Not only have I wronged you. I have done nothing to deserve... this.“ You cast your gaze down as you listen to him, the genuine hatred laced in his words making your heart truly, positively ache. „I find myself…“, he shakes his head, a sign of aggravation at himself, „I will always find myself waiting for the moment your kindness turns to disgust. For the inevitable hate that follows when a soul realizes what I am.“ He finally looks up at you, his eyes shimmering with a devastating honesty. "This gentleness of yours... cuts deeper than any whip. It is… an exquisite cruelty to let a man taste companionship when he has been damned to starve."
Silence follows, broken by you releasing a shuddering breath you apparently had been holding. You did not even realize that tears have begun forming in your eyes at his words. He watches you, having laid his soul bare before you. Carefully, slowly you move to the floor, kneeling in front of him. You gently take the folder from his hands, moving it to the bed, and take his right hand in yours. He watches your soft expression, his eyes widening as you guide his hand to your chest, placing his palm directly over your heart. The moment his skin meets yours, Erik stops breathing once again. His fingers twitch, a reflexive tremor running through them at the warmth of your skin. He looks down at where his hand sits, his expression one of absolute, shattering disbelief. He can feel it. The steady, thrumming beat of life, a rhythmic proof of your existence.
"This is real, Erik," you whisper, your eyes locking onto his. "It is no ploy. I… care for you." The word care seems to strike him with the force of a physical blow. His head snaps back slightly, his eye searching yours for the millionth time for deceit. He finds none.
At first, there is a light vibration against your chest. Then, he begins to shake terribly, a violent vibration that spreads through his entire frame. He shakes his head once, as if even his body can't accept your words, then looks at you again. At the way you kneel before him, nothing but warmth in the way you look at him. He is silent for a long moment, when…
"God help me," he whispers, his voice so very brittle. "I believe you."
Tears fall from his eyes, tracing paths down his cheek and the edge of his mask. Without a second thought, you rise and snake your hands around his torso, pulling him close. Your entire being is pressed against him, your face buried against the silk of his shoulder and your legs on either side of him, as you hold him. For a long, agonizing moment, he does not know what to do. His hands hover in the air behind your back, palms open and trembling. He seems terrified that if he touches you, the vision will dissolve after all. You tighten your grip around him, your warmth anchoring him. Just then, the dam truly breaks. He gives in with a ragged, broken sob that shakes his entire body. His arms wound around you with a desperate, crushing strength, pulling you flush against him. He hides his face in the crook of your neck as he - for the very first time in his life - lets himself be held. His fingers clutch the fabric of your dress, your presence the only thing that keeps him from drowning.
You stay like this for a long while, the only sound the fading rhythm of Erik’s breathing as it finally begins to smooth into an exhausted hum. You hold him with a steady, unyielding strength, your fingers tracing the fine silk of his waistcoat as the tension slowly bleeds out of his frame. In that moment, the world is nothing more than the terrifying, beautiful reality of another person.
Until the sharp, rhythmic rap of knuckles against wood shatters the silence. You freeze, your eyes going wide. You are still settled on Erik’s lap, your heart hammering against his chest as you look over his shoulder toward the door. Erik’s entire body goes rigid beneath you, his hands tightening on your waist.
"Y/N..?" Meg’s voice drifts through the heavy oak door. You release a breath, your shoulders dropping an inch. It is only Meg. The door is locked, and you are... occupied. "Yes?" you call back, your voice a fraction higher than usual.
"I was just passing by on my way to the dorms," Meg says, and you can almost hear the wicked, suggestive tilt of her eyebrows through the wood. "I wanted to ask... were you able to deliver your gift?" A fierce heat floods your face. You turn a deep, undeniable scarlet, closing your eyes tight as if the darkness behind your lids could shield you from the fact that Erik is sitting right here, hearing every word of your friend's blatant teasing. You - the woman who had just taken down a stagehand without blinking - are suddenly, hopelessly shy.
It is only then that the thought occurs to you that you should get off him. You begin to disentangle yourself, your movements hurried and clumsy as you slide off his lap, the loss of his warmth making the cool air of the room feel sharp. You step toward the door, smoothing your skirts with trembling hands. Erik watches you, angling his seated position so his eyes can follow you more easily. The shattered man of moments ago is gone, replaced by a quiet, stunned amusement. Seeing you, the Nightingale of the Palais, flush and lose her composure over something like this fascinates him. His eyes search your face, a soft, almost imperceptible light of wonder dancing in his iris. "I did.“ you manage to answer, trying desperately to sound nonchalant.
"And?" Meg prompts, her voice dripping with curiosity. "Did he like it?“ You look back at Erik. He is still sitting on the edge of your bed, the black folder resting beside him, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that makes your skin tingle. You close your eyes as a small, helpless smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. A silent, breathless laugh shakes your shoulders at the sheer absurdity of it all. Here is the Great Ghost of the Opera, the man who struck terror into the hearts of the managers, discussed like a schoolgirl’s crush while he sits on your velvet duvet. You raise your eyebrows and hands at him in a gesture of mock surrender. "I think he did.“, you call out.
There is a sudden, heavy pause from the hallway. You can almost hear the gears turning in Meg’s head as she processes your tone, the locked door, and the deliberate vagueness of your reply. Then, a sharp, audible gasp. "Oh!" Meg’s voice is a frantic, hushed squeak. "Oh, I see. I shall… leave you to it, then! Sleep well, Y/N! I’ll see you at rehearsal!" Her footsteps practically sprint away down the corridor. You let the back of your head fall back against the door with a dull thud, a soft groan escaping your lips as you grimace at the ceiling.
Erik’s low, melodic chuckle breaks the silence. There is no trace of the bitter, hollow tone you have heard before. It is warm, resonant, and touched with a genuine sense of irony. "You told her.“, he murmurs, his voice thick with a mix of disbelief and pride. "You spoke of me... to the Giry girl." You do not dare to look at him. Not yet.
Erik rises from the bed then, his movements fluid and graceful. He sheds his cloak in a swift motion, setting it on the wood of your bed as he begins to walk toward you in slow and deliberate strides. He stops just a foot away, the scent of sandalwood and parchment enveloping you once more. When you finally look at him again there is a glint in his eyes, his expression one of profound amusement. „I… well, I didn't exactly-“ You start, your voice tripping over itself. You look from his eyes to the buttons of his waistcoat. "I didn't give her a name. I just… might have mentioned-„
„A dashing baritone?“, he interrupts, your eyes widening more than you thought possible. You grimace again slightly, your blush deepening. „I didn’t… use quite these words. I just might have mentioned that there was someone... ridiculously brilliant.“ You risk a glance up. Erik lets out a soft, huffed sound of a laugh. A sound of genuine, private delight. He reaches out to tuck a stray, rebellious lock of hair behind your ear with a confidence you did not know he possessed. His fingers linger there, brushing against the sensitive skin of your temple.
"Ridiculously brilliant," he repeats, testing the words as if they were a new melody. His expression softens, the amusement giving way to a look of such raw, quiet gratitude that it makes your breath catch. He realizes that you have not kept him hidden like a shameful secret. You have acknowledged his existence to a person you trust. He stays in your space for one more heartbeat, his gaze searching your face with absolute tenderness.“
Erik’s hand lingers at your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone with a reverence that makes the air feel still. He is looking at you not his protégé, but as the one person who might truly understand him. "I find," he whispers, his voice dropping into that rich, cello-like register, "that despite the lateness of the hour... and the staggering weight of this day... I am not yet ready to retreat into solitude.“
He lowers his hand, turning to look at the leather folder resting on the bed. He walks towards it, picking up the black and silver skin you bought to house his soul. „There is an opera, Y/N. It is unfinished… A work I have spent my life composing in the dark. It is... it is my heart, laid bare in ink." He looks back at you, his eyes burning with a sudden intensity. "I should like for its pages to be the very first to find their home in this."
He doesn't have to ask. You can see the request in the way he stands, the way he holds the space between you. He wants to bring you into the center of his world, not for a lesson, but to share his very soul with you. „Of course.“, you say softly, your voice a steady vow. A ghost of a smile - genuine and hopeful - touches his lips. He retrieves his cloak from the bed with fluid grace. He offers you his hand, a gesture of old-world courtliness that feels entirely right. "Then come, mon ange.“, he murmurs, his voice a low, melodic invitation. Together you step toward the gate to his world, and let the shadows of the Opera House swallow you both.
𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖑, pt.9
phantom of the opera x reader
Word count: 5108
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜
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9 - 𝕾𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖉𝖔𝖊𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖋𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖍
Just before your skin would touch his, the world outside the sanctuary of your room intrudes. The moment the wood of the door rattles under the knuckles of the person knocking, the atmosphere in the room snaps from intoxicating intimacy to lethal tension.
"Y/N?" Raoul’s voice carries through the wood, muffled but unmistakably earnest. Erik’s hand doesn't just drop, it clenches into a white-knuckled fist. His eyes, which had been warm with worship, now burn like twin embers of hatred directed solely at the door. It is a wonder the door does not burst from it. "I know I have no right to disturb you after such a triumph, but I could not leave without a word.", the Vicomte continues.
Erik’s lips form a sneer. He leans in closer to you, his breath a lethal hiss against your ear. "The puppy returns, whining for a scrap of attention," he murmurs, his eyes fixed on the handle as if he could melt it with a glance. He looks back at you, a dark, mocking challenge in his gaze. "Well, Mademoiselle? The sun is knocking. Shall I leave you to it?" You can feel the sheer, unadulterated violence radiating off him.
To anyone else, it would be terrifying. But you see right through it. Your eyes wander to the way his thumb twitches against his palm; a tell-tale sign of the agonizing insecurity he hides behind the "Phantom" persona. He isn't a monster. He is a man who has never been chosen, waiting for the inevitable moment you realize the Vicomte is the "correct" choice. Your eyes drift back up and hold his gaze, refusing to be intimidated by the storm he’s trying to conjure. His eyes widen just a fraction, a flicker of recognition in them. Before he can wonder if you truly just read him like an open book, you turn away.
As you to move toward the door, the air behind you seems to turn cold. Erik watches you with an intensity that says he is judging every move you make, every syllable you utter. Behind his mask, his mind is a cacophony of self-loathing. There she goes, he thinks, the words like ash in his mind. She moves toward the light, as all living things must. She will open the door, and the boy will take her hand, and the darkness will be all I have left.
You don't unlock it fully. Instead, you slide the brass chain into its groove and crack the door just a few inches. It is enough to see Raoul’s face, but not enough to let him in. "Vicomte," you say, your voice remarkably steady despite the adrenaline. "Can this wait? I am exhausted." Raoul winces, leaning his forehead against the doorframe. A pang of guilt rushes through you as he sighs, a sound heavy with regret. "I am a cur, Y/N, for interrupting you now. For how arrogant I was in the foyer.“ Raoul paused for a moment, his eyes hopeful and pleading. "I have seen a thousand performances," Raoul continues, his voice dropping into a register of desperate sincerity. "But I have never seen anything like you. Since I have heard you sing… I find I cannot think, cannot breathe, without wondering when I might see you again. You have bewitched me, Y/N."
Erik lets out a sharp, mocking puff of air. It is an almost inaudible sound of pure derision. He wants to scream that Raoul knows nothing of enchantment, that he has no right to even speak to you of it. You see out of the corner of your eye how he is silently pacing the rug, fingers twitching violently at his sides. His body is betraying the insecurity he truly feels. Raoul’s voice turns even softer. "I do not wish to pressure you. I do not wish to be the 'savior' you clearly do not want. But please... let me at least hope that there is a place for me in your world. Not as a patron, but as... just me."
Erik lets out a low, silent sneer, his disdain a physical weight in the room. Yet, deeper than the disdain is a paralyzing fear. He watches your profile as you listen to Raoul, searching for any sign of softening in your expression. Right now, the Vicomte is not hiding behind his title, or a present. He is honest. And Erik fears that this is exactly what will finally win you over. He feels like a helpless bystander, a stone gargoyle watching an inevitable confession between a prince and a queen.
Erik’s eyes snap to you. Then, the word falls from your lips.
"Raoul..."
The name hits Erik like a physical blow. He nearly stumbles back against the vanity, his heart leaping into his throat. To hear you use the boy’s first name - to grant him that level of intimacy - is a dagger to Erik’s pride. He is certain this is the end. He prepares himself to vanish, to retreat into the walls and nurse a hatred that will burn the Opera House to the ground.
But then, you continue. „I appreciate your honesty. But I am simply not interested. I’m sorry.“ Your voice is steady, carrying the weight of rejection. The silence from the other side of the door is deafening. Raoul eventually pulls back, his shadow disappearing from the crack in the door. "I understand. Sleep well, Y/N. You were... magnificent." Erik stands frozen, his breath hitching in his chest. He hears Raoul’s retreat; the sound of a man who has truly lost.
You softly close the door, fingers lingering on the handle for a moment. As you turn, you almost expect to find the corner empty, for „the Phantom“ to have vanished back into the stone. But Erik hasn't moved. He is still standing by your vanity, his silhouette framed by the flickering candlelight, looking as though he has been struck by lightning.
You hold his gaze for a moment, then you begin taking a few pins out of your hair, and setting them on the nightstand. His eyes track your every movement with a mixture of awe and dawning terror. "You..." he starts, his voice cracking slightly. As he speaks, you turn to him, giving him your undivided attention. He clears his throat, trying to regain that authoritative baritone, but fails. "You called him by his name. I thought... I was certain that the moment you uttered it, you were sealing my return to the shadows."
He casts his gaze down, not daring to look at you anymore. "Why, Y/N? He offered you the world. Why send him away? And let me stay?" The self-hatred in his tone is evident, and so genuine that it makes your heart ache for him. Right now, there is nothing predatory left in him. His head is hung low, gaze puzzled and distant. In a way, he looks small, helpless even.
You move toward the bed, the mattress dipping slightly as you sit on the edge directly in his line of sight. "It is as I told the Vicomte... his world does not appeal much to me." You begin, your voice carrying gently and steadily through the dim room. „Wealth, a title, and popularity can be of advantage to some degree, certainly. But they are not what I value." He shifts, his fingers twitching. "I care for the things that have …meaning. Music that makes the heart ache, architecture that tells a story of centuries, paintings and literature that make you think... that make you feel seen and understood.“ You pause, offering him a small, meaningful look. "I feel like you and I are very much alike in that regard.“
Erik’s gaze remains fixed on his own hands. The pale fingers of a man who has spent a lifetime clawing at the earth for a scrap of beauty. He hears you say that you are alike, and a silent, bitter protest rises in his throat. Impossible, he thinks, his mind spinning. How can a loathsome creature of the dark be like a woman who seems carry the sun in her heart? He looks at you and sees a a work of art, a masterpiece both inside and out. His eyes move back to his own hands, and he sees the tools of a builder, killer, and ghost. Yet, as you speak of meaning, feeling, and understanding, he feels a terrifying sense of alignment. Before he can truly process it, you continue.
"If I’m entirely honest," you say softly, "the time we spend together during our lessons is usually my favorite part of the day." To Erik, it feels like the floor seems to fall away entirely from beneath his feet. His head snaps up. His eyes widen, searching yours for any hint of a cruel jest, any sign that this is a dream he will wake from. "If you ask me," you add, a small smile playing on your lips, "there are plenty of Raouls in this world. And while he is a reasonably nice man, he is not at all special to me. You, on the other hand… I don’t know anyone who understands art the way you do. I don’t know anyone who talks about it with as much passion, as much palpable enthusiasm, as you do. That is why you are here, and he is not."
Erik makes a sound; a choked, shuddering intake of air. His hands continue twitching at his sides, even more so than before. "You speak as if I have a soul worth knowing," he whispers. He shakes his head before looking at you, his expression bitter. "To hear you say that he is 'ordinary' and that I..." He pauses, swallowing hard, his gaze lingering at the rose still tucked over your heart, then dropping to the floor. He lets out a low, self-deprecating laugh. "I do not think you understand the danger of the company you keep, Y/N," he murmurs, lifting his head. "I spent the entire time that boy was speaking... calculating the exact moment his heartbeat would cease. I was choosing the shadows from which I would watch the life leave his eyes. I was not thinking of art. I was thinking of murder."
He watches you intently, waiting for a flicker of fear, or at the very least realisation of the darkness he harbours within. Instead, he is faced with the same gentle open-mindedness you always seem to carry. „So?“, you ask, your gaze remaining steady and soft as you lean back against the post of the Prima Donna bed. Erik doesn't just look surprised, he looks as though you have struck him. His hands stop their twitching and freeze. "So?" he repeats, the word barely a breath. He lets out a sharp, jagged exhale. "You say 'so' as if I had confessed to a common flaw, like a penchant for sour wine or a quick temper." He stands abruptly, the movement so sudden it makes the candlelight flicker wildly. He begins to pace the small space of your dressing room like a caged animal, his shadow looming large and distorted against the silk wallpaper. "You clearly do not understand," he rasps, his voice rising with every sentence he speaks in a desperate attempt to prove himself right. "It is hatred, Y/N. If you truly understood the twisted architecture of my soul… your 'understanding' would turn to ash. It would turn to the very hate I have earned from every soul who has ever looked upon me.“He roars the last part, the bitterness - and beneath it, the hurt - evident in his tone.
You feel for him, yet his outburst leaves you perfectly still. You watch his frantic movements with a calm that seems to unnerve him even more. You wait, giving him time until he stops, until he looks at you again: „No.“
His eyes widen, his visible eyebrow furrowing in a look of utter bewilderment. His hands fly up and his mouth opens - both in disbelief, and to protest - but before he can even begin to voice his racing thoughts, you go on. "I think that I am more aware than you give me credit for, Erik." you say, your voice absolutely steady. You sigh softly, and search his eyes. „I see your 'darkness', if you want to call it that. But I am simply... okay with it."
His mouth - that had closed in the meantime - opens once again, but you lift a hand, silencing him. "I have known people who harm others for the sake of it," you continue, staring ahead. "People who find a twisted joy in the suffering of those weaker than them. You are not one of them.“, you pause, giving him a steady look for emphasis, „You are a man who considers drastic measures to protect what is important to him. And that is something I can understand.“ Your gaze holds his for a moment, and you can almost see the storm brewing inside him. „I am perfectly aware that I know little to nothing of your past. But I am fairly confident that the world must have given you a good reason to handle matters the way you do.“
Erik’s expression shifts. He moves closer, his fingers twitching again. "How?" he whispers, his brown eyes searching yours with a terrifying intensity. "How could you possibly understand?"
You look down at your own hands, remembering the grime that used to live under your fingernails long before they were manicured for the opera. "You know of the fire, Erik," you say softly. "But you don't know what came after. "I lived on the streets for a longer time than I’d like to admit. I learned very quickly that the world out there is not a place for the 'good' or the 'kind.' It is a place for the clever."
You look back at him, your eyes glinting with a sharp, hard-won wisdom. "I learned to use my 'innocent looks' to my advantage. I learned to manipulate, to steal, and how to stay invisible when the wrong people were looking for me. I was… I felt… forced to do things I am not particularly proud of."
Erik stares at you, his chest barely moving as he breathes. He slowly sinks onto the velvet stool again.
"I am a fool,“ he whispers, his voice thick with a dark, shimmering reverence. "I thought I had mastered living behind a mask. But you…“ He lets out a breathy sound that is almost a gasp of wonder. "You have built a mask of grace so seamless that even I could not see beneath." He shakes his head, a ghost of a smile touching the corner of his mouth. He looks around the Prima Donna room - at the door - then back at you, sitting on the edge of the bed. He lets out a genuine, low chuckle. "You truly are a powerful woman," he says, leaning back slightly. "In a single hour, you have dismantled a Vicomte of France, and you have rendered the Opera Ghost speechless. And in both cases, you needed only words.“ He tilts his head, his golden eyes dancing with a sudden, playful spark of wit. „You might be more dangerous than I am, woman."
You let out a snort of amusement. „Now that… is a compliment.“, you quip and stand, moving toward the dressing screen with a casual grace. „Thank you, kind sir," you call back over your shoulder. Erik’s posture stiffens as he realizes where you’re going. He immediately shifts his gaze toward the far wall, intent on being respectful, yet his eyes dart back involuntarily as the heavy, gold-embroidered Elissa dress is flung upward, hanging ungraciously over the rim of the screen. He hears the soft thud of your stage shoes being kicked off, followed by your sigh of relief.
The adrenaline of the performance and the confrontation begins to ebb, replaced by a comfortable, heavy exhaustion. The air between you turns soft, almost domestic. "You were humming something this morning," he says, his voice regaining a bit of its spark. "Before your performance. It was a melody I’ve never heard."
You emerge from behind the screen. You are wearing your thin chemise with a satin robe flung loosely over it, your hair cascading down your shoulders in a wild, dark river. Erik’s reaction is… noticeable, despite his best efforts to hide it. As he takes in the sight of you so soft, natural and vulnerable, his grip on the edge of the vanity stool tightens. His gaze lingers on the column of your throat and the way your hair catches the candlelight before he forces his eyes back to yours.
"You, of all people, should know that I occasionally dabble in composition," you answer with a tilt of your head. "Though it’s rarely an active choice. Sometimes a melody just... decides to take shape in my head. Like this morning."You take a seat on the bed again.
People, the word echoes in the hollows of his mind, the simple equality in your tone a miracle to him. "The mind of a creator is never truly at rest," he answers, his interest clearly piqued. "It is always seeking to translate the untranslatable." There he goes again, you think, describing the most complex process in the most simple and beautiful way. You smile softly at him. „Quite right. Though the few pieces I did 'compose' - if you can even call it that - are not something I take particular pride in," you admit, tightening the sash of your robe. "They’re more of an… outlet for emotion to me." Erik nods slowly, his gaze lingering on you with deep understanding. "The best music always is. It is the only language for things that have no name." His gaze shifts to the table where your sketchbook lies. "Though, perhaps not the only one, but rather one of very few."
Erik continues staring at the sketchbook for a long moment, before tearing his eyes back to your face. You can see the question forming in his eyes long before he dares to ask. "You may look through it, if you wish," you say gently. Erik reaches out, his gloved fingers trembling slightly as he picks up the book. He opens the cover, the parchment crinkling in the silence of the room.
Erik handles the sketchbook as if it were an ancient, fragile relic. As he turns the first few pages, his movements are slow, his focus so absolute that he seems to have forgotten how to blink. The first sketches are clearly the work of a child, yet the perspective is haunting. There are no drawings of dolls or sunny meadows. Instead, Erik finds the remains of train tracks vanishing into a grey horizon, the jagged silhouette of a lantern with a cracked pane, and the intricate, drooping sorrow of a weepingbegonia. „I was very young when I drew those," you murmur, a sudden heat rising to your cheeks. You look down at your lap, picking at a loose thread on your robe. "Twelve, perhaps. They’re... quite crude.“
Erik’s thumb lingers over a drawing of the dark, narrow passage. "Crude?" he says, his tone a low rumble of defense. „They are fascinating. They are… proof that even at such a young age you saw beauty in things the world dismisses.“ He finally looks at you, his eyes searching yours. „Thank you,“ you answer softly, offering him a small, sheepish smile.
As he continues, the sketches indeed grow more sophisticated. The lines become sharper, the shading deeper and more atmospheric. He passes a series of animals that seem to stare back at him from the page: A raven with feathers that like iridescent oil. A frog perched on a damp stone. An owl with eyes that seem to hold ancient wisdom. Then, he reaches the first portrait. It is an absolutely beautiful woman, her features rendered with love and precision. "My mother," you say softly. "Her name was Lilian.“ Erik’s gaze shifts between the page and your face. The comparison is undeniable. "You have her eyes," he murmurs, his voice soft.
He flips more pages, pausing on one that seems inspired by the dark romanticism of Poe; a dreamlike, gothic landscape that feels like a precursor to the very labyrinth he calls home. Erik lets out a soft breath. He isn't just looking at art, he’s looking at a map of a mind that is just as comfortable in the dark as his own.
He turns more pages, finding the streets of Paris he knows so well - not the grand boulevards, but the hidden corners. Over time, he finds the other anchors of your life: A portrait of your brother that captures a fleeting moment of when your childhood had been untroubled. The next portrait he comes across shows an elderly lady whose kindness is etched into every wrinkle around her eyes. Erik’s fingers hover over the page, marveling at how you seem to have a way of capturing people for how they truly are instead of what they are trying to show.
As he continues to flip through the scenes of the city, his movements falter. He reaches a section where several pages have been torn out. He pauses, his fingers tracing the rough edges. He hesitates, his curiosity warring with respect for how much you are already willing to show him.
"You removed pages," he murmurs, his gaze flickering to you. "Were they…mistakes?"
„That might not be the easiest question to answer.“, you breathe. „At some point on the street, I wanted to try and earn honest money. I would sit on the corners and paint strangers who did not even want to properly look at me. I tore out the pages and gave them away for an awfully little amount.“ Erik closes the book halfway, his hand resting flat against the cover. „Do you still draw them?" he asks, his voice barely more than a murmur. "Portraits?" You look at him earnestly, the warmth of the bed against your back. „I did few more after those years on the street; Meg, Madame Giry…" you answer softly. "But after those... for the longest time, I did not." You let the implication hang in the air, that someone recently has changed that. Erik’s hand tenses on the book. He wants to ask, the question burning in his eyes, but he does not.
The next page turns and he comes to face with the ones from your time at the Opera. He isn't just looking at art anymore; he is looking at his sanctuary through the eyes of the only person he has ever allowed to truly inhabit it. He lingers on a drawing of the massive pulley system in the rafters - the "muscles" of the stage, if you will - rendered with a mechanical precision that makes him hum in approval. He flips past a stern, ink-washed portrait of Madame Giry and a series of light, airy charcoal sketches of Meg in mid-pirouette.
"I remember this," he murmurs, his finger tracing a sketch of a dusty, forgotten ornate shelf in a storage room. "I was standing in the shadows, intending to be a terror to you. I wanted to drive you from these halls...“ He lets out a soft, self-deprecating huff of air. "I watched you for hours, days, weeks… Time and time again, I saw how you treated these abandoned halls with a curiosity so gentle I wouldn’t have thought it possible. I found I couldn't bring myself… I did not want to scare you anymore. So I just watched you as you wandered, or painted, or simply rested in the hidden corners of the house.“
"I know," you whisper, your voice a soft in the quiet. Erik’s visible cheek takes on a faint, dusty flush that makes your chest ache. He let out a dry, short huff of a breath, his lips twitching into a small, wry smile. "Of course you did," he murmurs. "I didn't always know," you admit, shifting against the pillows. "But I had my suspicions. So, I started testing you." He looks up from the sketchbook, his brow furrowed in genuine bewilderment. "Testing me?"
"The latches on the prop-room doors," you explained, your eyes twinkling with mischief. "I’d leave them at a odd angles. Or I’d leave a heavy door slightly ajar in a way that the draft couldn't possibly account for. And every time I came back... someone had fixed them. That’s when I knew I had a... companion." Erik freezes - you have a knack for making him do just that - his eyes widening as he lets out a short, incredulous laugh. He shook his head, a sound of genuine, stunned amusement in his chest. "You... you did that on purpose? I was clueless. My ego may never recover, Mademoiselle." You feel a surge of delight at his chuckle. "You’ll survive, Maestro," you quip.
The hint of a smile remains on his lips as he turns a few more pages. He stops abruptly at a sketch of a tiny, cramped crawlspace behind the velvet curtains of the upper tiers; a place so hidden it does not appear on any architectural map. "I was not aware anyone else knew of this vantage point," he says, his voice a mix of shock and dark appreciation. "What can I say?" you answered softly. "It seems you aren't the only ghost in these halls."
As the minutes bleed into hours, the conversation drifts. The candles burn down to stubs, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. The celebratory noises from the halls had long since died away, leaving only the rhythmic breathing of the opera house. Over time, the distance between you had decreased without either of you seeming fully aware. Erik has abandoned his stiff posture; he has moved the vanity stool closer to the bed, the sketchbook now resting on the duvet between you. You are lounging comfortably against the pillows, the casual intimacy of the moment having you both forget the world outside.
He flips yet another page and goes completely still. There, rendered in exquisite detail, is the dark crimson rose. You’ve captured the velvety texture of the petals and the sharp lines of the stem. It is the only thing on the page, centered like a sacred relic. Erik’s reaction is entirely, heartbreakingly human. He doesn't speak. He reaches out, his bare fingers hovering just a fraction of an inch above the drawing, as if he expects to feel the velvet of the flower. A small, shuddering breath escapes him. To see his gift, his presence, recorded in the gallery of your life is something he was not prepared for. You watch him, your gaze softening into something deep and unabashedly adoring. You want to tell him right then that he is wrong; that he is not a monster, that no monster could react with such fragile, beautiful humility. You noticed the sea of emotion in his eyes, feeling a swell of affection so strong it feels like a physical heat.
Erik looks up, catching the expression on your face. He studies you for a long moment; your lidded eyes, your soft half-smile, the way you lean into the pillows as if you feel entirely safe with him near. He seems dazed, his mind struggling to interpret the look you are giving him. Right then, he finds himself in a state so foreign to him that he didn't have the vocabulary to describe it: Happiness.
Suddenly, his eyes wander to the window, then to the candles that had burned down to mere puddles of wax. A look of genuine shock crossed his face.
"It is nearly morning.“, he whispers, his voice regaining its gravelly edge. He stands abruptly in a flurry of protective concern. He closes the sketchbook with a thud, carefully setting it aside. "I have been a selfish, thoughtless creature," he mutters. "I have kept you awake for half the night. After you have delivered a performance that would exhaust a titan, at that.“ He moves to the side of the bed, his movements unusually frantic as he tries to play the role of the diligent guardian. "You must sleep, Y/N. Immediately." He catches the edge of the heavy silk quilt, pulling it up to shield you from the approaching morning chill. As he does, his knuckles graze the soft skin of your shoulder just above the neckline of your robe. He freezes at the contact, his breath hitching, but he doesn't pull away. You let out a soft, sleepy hum and reach up, your hand moving to slowly settle over his. "It is alright, Erik," you murmur, your voice thick with the first pulls of sleep. You look up at him, your eyes half-closed but shining with sincerity. "Tomorrow is my day off. And even if it weren't... I would not trade a single minute of this for rest. I truly enjoyed this."
Erik stares down at your joined hands in a state of utter, paralyzed disbelief. To be touched with such casual, unforced affection - without a song to prompt it or a lesson to justify it - is yet another miracle to him. He feels the pulse in your wrist, the warmth of your palm, and the utter lack of hesitation in your grip.A shuddering breath escapes him, his shoulders dropping an inch. He looks at you, and for a fleeting second, the man behind the mask is entirely visible: A soul that has been starving for a lifetime, finally being fed. "I..." he starts, but his voice fails him. He swallows hard, his gaze lingering on your face as if he’s trying to memorize the exact shade of your eyes in the dying firelight. "Sleep well, Y/N," he finally manages to whisper, his voice a raw, gravelly sound. He doesn't pull his hand away. He waits for you to release him as your grip softens with the onset of sleep. Only then does he retreat. He stands, his tall, caped silhouette seeming to merge with the deepening shadows of the room.
There is a soft, rhythmic click - the sound of the mirror mechanism, or a hidden panel - and he is gone. You drift off almost instantly, sinking into the soft depths of the mattress. As you fall into a dreamless, short but peaceful sleep, the last thing you sense is the lingering scent he left behind: An intoxicating mixture of leather, old parchment, and sandalwood that is entirely him.
𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖑, pt. 8
phantom of the opera x reader
AN: Soooooo I wrote this stupidly long chapter (which is why it took me ages) and then decided to split it in two. So, you shall have both shortly! Hope you enjoy. x
Word count: 3589
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜
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8 - 𝕻𝖔𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖊 𝕯𝖊𝖈𝖊𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘
The following morning, you lay in bed for a long time. Luckily for you, you did not sense his presence as you woke, which leaves you entirely to your thoughts. Every time you close your eyes, you see him standing before you. You see the reverence with which he looked at you, the way his eyes in no way held the distance of a teacher. You still hear the tenderness in his voice as he approached you, and the fierce determination of his eyes as he told you he would trade his entire being for your contentment. The honesty of his words and the phantom weight of his embrace make a shudder run through you, your heart beating faster. You bury your head further in your pillows and sigh, when something suddenly begins to stir in the back of your mind. A note, then another, weaving into a gentle and hopeful melody. It is not one of Eriks haunting scores, nor is it a piece from the Opera’s repertoire. It is something entirely natural, entirely yours. You sit up and reach for your sketchbook, flipping the back open. Your fingers move with purpose, scribbling the notes down before they fade. Once you are finished, you gently hum the melody your mind conjured up, and begin to freshen up. You are halfway through a cup of tea when a sharp, rhythmic knocking at your door precedes Meg Giry’s entrance. She doesn't wait for an invitation. She breezes in, her ballet slippers slung over her shoulder, her eyes twinkling with a specific kind of mischief.
„Do tell me about your evening.“ Meg says, narrowing her eyes as she closes in on you. The way she says it almost makes your stomach flip, yet you manage a calm smile, hiding part of your face as you lift your teacup. "I was reading, Meg. These past days do have me rather exhausted.“
„Reading?“ Meg giggles, leaning against your vanity and picking up your rouge pot. "Is that what we’re calling it now? Because I happened to pass your door last night - to fetch a ribbon I’d forgotten, mind you - and I could have sworn I heard the low rumble of a man’s voice. A very deep, very compelling voice." Your heart skips, your hand hovering over a strand of hair before you tuck it away. In that very moment, you are awfully glad that Erik does not seem to be near. Lying to your friend does not seem right to you, but telling her the truth also does not seem like an entirely adequate solution. As someone who knows you well enough to know how quick witted you usually are, the time you take to answer right now does not go past Meg. She giggles, poking your shoulder. "No wonder you find the Vicomte so boring! Raoul is charming, but the voice I heard yesterday...“, her eyes sparkle as she leans closer to you. „You must tell me who he is. Is there some dashing baritone hiding in your wardrobe?“ You look at her for a moment, pondering your options as a slight blush rises to your cheeks. "He is my tutor.“ You finally answer, then add with a giggle. „And he is in fact not hiding in my wardrobe.“ You raise your hands in defense. "A tutor?" Megs eyebrow shoots up, a positively wicked grin spreading across her face. "Private lessons in the middle of the night? My, Y/N, I didn't know you were that studious.
"Meg Giry!“ you chide, as you know exactly what she is alluding to. You can't help the hearty laugh that follows, then slowly subsides. "They truly are just lessons.", you murmur, eyes locking onto the sketchbook that lay before you. Meg hums, and sits down on the side of your bed. „Then why do you seem downright disappointed about that?“ Your eyes snap to her. You open your mouth to protest, but no words come out. Meg tilts her head slightly, and you try again. „He’s brilliant at what he does, Meg, truly. The way he understands and describes music…“, you trail off, brows furrowing as you struggle to find the right words. „I am lucky that he even is my tutor.“, you conclude. She reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, a loving gesture of one of the very few people who have known you for a long time.
„Y/N…“, she begins, smiling. „In case you have forgotten, you are the Prima Donna. You are the one of the most beautiful, talented, and intelligent people I know. And you are one thing that a lot of people in this business are not; a genuinely good person.“ Her eyes hold yours as she says this, and you see nothing but warmth and honesty in them. There‘s not a trace of ill will or jealousy, and you once again find yourself grateful to have her in your life. „So if you ask me“, she continues, „He can count himself lucky to have you, in whichever way.“, she throws in a wink, making you giggle. „Either way, you should really tell this 'tutor' of yours to make an appearance. Not only would it aid my curiosity, but it would also perhaps be a… sign, for the Vicomte. Mother is currently trying to keep him at bay downstairs. He’s there, and seems desperate to see you." Meg sighs, turning toward the door. You look up at her from where you sitting, and genuinely thank her. She smiles and makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. As the door clicks shut behind her, you can’t help the fond smile. Meg’s friendship is a light you aren't willing to lose, even if her curiosity might be… a hazard. After checking your appearance once more, you stand from your vanity. You move to gather your shawl and slip out of the room.
You eventually find Raoul in the foyer, another bouquet of lilies in his hands. He looks exactly as he did yesterday: perfect, and more like a statue than a person. You sense that Erik is near, too. For a brief moment you wonder where he might be, since you don’t know any passages around here. Then the Vicomte starts to speak, and as he does, you can feel the temperature in the room drop by a fraction. "Y/N", he says, his face lighting up with a sincerity that makes you feel a twinge of guilt. "I hoped we might speak. I felt... yesterday was a bit hurried. I was beginning to fear I’d missed you. It is rather difficult to get ahold of you." You offer him the tiniest apologetic smile. "My apologies, Vicomte. I do have a very busy schedule," you say, adjusting your shawl. "Between rehearsals, the performances, and lessons... there is very little time for anything else." Raoul’s brow furrows at the mention of the latter. "You mentioned you keep your evenings for your studies. Are those the lessons you are referring to?"
"Precisely," you answer, keeping your tone even. Raoul looks genuinely unsettled. "I want you to know that I take your career seriously“, he begins „But I also worry for you in this place. I cannot bear the thought of something happening to you, with these… unconventional hours of your studies.“ You keep a respectful distance. „You do not need to be worried. In truth, I have lived in much worse places than the Opera House." He looks at you with a soft - and to you, aggravatingly patronising - pity. "Especially if that is the case, you should not have to live here now, amongst this 'Ghost' especially. I’ve heard of his notes, of how he takes an interest in you.“
Behind the panels of the wall, a low hiss of breath escapes Erik. To hear this boy speak of him as a nuisance, a threat to be managed, is an insult that makes his hands clench into fists. You are aware Raoul means well, yet you have to fight a powerful urge to roll your eyes. The irony of it all is striking. "I can assure you, I do not feel afraid. In fact, I feel perfectly safe here.“ you say firmly, looking him into the eyes. "I admire your boldness, truly. But…" he insists, his tone softening into that of someone who believes himself to be the savior. "I could organize lessons for you at my family estate. We have rooms with perfect acoustics. You would have the best teachers Paris can offer, which would be no less than you deserve." You cannot suppress a smirk. The idea of some stuffy, academic Parisian "Master" trying to teach you what Erik - a man who breathes music like oxygen - has already perfected is almost laughable. "I don't mean to be ungrateful, Vicomte," you say, your voice gaining a sharp edge that rings through the foyer. "But I truly doubt that. In fact, I am certain of it."
Erik freezes. You never cease to surprise him with how straightforward you are. He is holding his breath, waiting for what you say next. Raoul blinks, clearly taken aback as well. "You doubt the quality of the teachers I could provide?"
"Not per se.“, you quickly retort, „I merely doubt that anyone in Paris, or perhaps the world, has anything left to teach me that my current tutor has not already grasped," you shrug lightly. "Every other 'master' I have seen is an amateur by comparison."
In the shadows, Erik’s heart beats may change the shape of his ribs with the impact of its beating. Not only did you choose to acknowledge that he exists in your world as someone with a purpose; you label his genius as unparalleled. You chose him. Openly, in front of his rival, even. You chose him over the safety of an estate and every other teacher Paris has to offer.
Raoul’s face falls. The rejection of his estate - and his protection - leaves him looking small, despite his title. "Y/N... if I cannot convince you to accompany me to my estate..." He reaches out, his hand catching your wrist. His grip is gentle, but feels like a shackle to you. "Please at the very least do me the favor of calling me Raoul," the Vicomte says, his voice dropping to a tone he likely considers intimate. "'Vicomte' feels like a wall between us, and I’d like to think we are beyond such formalities, are we not?"
Erik’s eyes burn like molten gold as they fixate on Raoul’s hand on you. He hears his words, the desperation with which the Vicomte tries to tear down everything that still seperates you. A cold, murderous promise settles in the Phantom’s mind: If he does not release her, I will rid him of this very hand.
You furrow your brows, gently disengaging your arm from his grasp. „Whatever makes you think that?“, you say, offering a polite, but final smile. „Good day, Vicomte.“ You turn and walk away, your heels clicking rhythmically against the marble, leaving Raoul standing in the center of the foyer with his lilies and bruised pride. You feel the heat of Erik’s gaze following you as you leave.
The following hours are a blur of theatrical machinery. Everywhere you went, you felt Erik’s presence. You spend two hours in costume fitting, standing atop a wooden pedestal while three seamstresses pin a heavy velvet cloak to your shoulders. As evening falls, you return to your room to get ready for your final performance of Hannibal. As you make your way through the corridors, you feel the shadows move with you.
You enter your room to find a single, dark crimson rose sitting on your vanity. You walk towards it immediately, lifting the rose and gliding your fingers across the stem. They linger on the cool silk of the ribbon, before you bow your head slightly, closing your eyes and inhaling the scent. To Erik, the picture before him is a divine image. You, standing with perfect posture in the last rays of sunlight. He notices how a few strands of your hair have escaped their place, now framing your face instead. He sees the way your eyes are closed and your cheeks are tinted, the ghost of a smile on your lips. Before you, your delicate hands hold his rose like a treasure. While the Vicomtes Lillies are nowhere to be seen. A sense of satisfaction surges through him as he watches you.
You carefully set the rose back onto your vanity for now. Erik watches you through the two-way silver as you take a seat, and pick up the small pot of crimson paint. His eyes follow the focused, almost meditative way you apply the color to your lips. He wonders, with a pang of something between fear and hope, if you know he is there. Either way, you appear to be comfortable. He dares to think that you might even be content with his presence, not as the Maestro, but simply as him. The man in the shadows.
Then, you begin to hum. Behind the mirror, Erik freezes. His ears, trained to hear the slightest discordance in a symphony of a hundred instruments, lock onto the melody. It is gentle, hopeful, and hauntingly beautiful. He doesn't recognize it. It isn’t his. It isn’t the Opera’s. It is yours. A sharp spike of possessive curiosity strikes him. It is one thing to be a teacher and witness a student’s progress, it is quite another to be reminded the student is a creator in her own right. He is struck by a sudden hunger, not for the music itself, but for the mind that created it. It occurs to him that despite the hours spent in the dark of the cellar, there are still vast, uncharted territories of your soul he has yet to know. He finds himself wanting to be a cartographer of your spirit, to map out every brilliant inch, every hidden valley of thought, and every peak of emotion until your entire being is laid before him like a sacred score.
You gather the dark rose and move to stand in front of the large golden mirror. With a slow, deliberate motion you tuck the bloom into the bodice of your dress, over your heart. Your eyes snap up. You look directly into the mirror, precisely at the spot where his eyes are hidden. There is a knowing glint in your gaze that makes him feel as though the mirror between you has turned to smoke. You know. You always do. Your eyes hold his for another moment before you turn, making your way to the stage.
As the curtain rises on Hannibal one last time, the atmosphere in the Opera Populaire is electric. For you, the thousands of eyes in the stalls barely exist. The only pair of eyes that matters resides in Box Five, watching with a searing intensity. You take a deep, grounding breath - exactly as he taught you - but as the first note leaves your throat, it carries more than technique. You aren't merely playing Elissa, you are living her. You take the technical precision Erik drilled into you and weave it through with the raw, pulsing heat of your own soul. While you sing, you feel like you are connected to the shadows of his box. It feels like a tether of sound and magic binds you to him even across the distance of the auditorium.
Erik came tonight with the intention of being the cold, clinical critic. He wanted to find a sharp note, a breath held too long, a technical flaw he could use to retreat behind the mask of the strict master. He wanted to re-establish the distance that the previous night’s embrace had shattered.
He fails miserably.
As your voice fills the auditorium, he is rendered powerless. He closes his eyes almost involuntarily, his head leaning back against the velvet of the box, undone by the sheer beauty of it. The hopeful, treacherous part of his brain whispers that while you are on that stage, you belong to the dark. To him.
The shallow eyes of the audience see a prima donna delivering a perfect performance, Erik sees an intoxicating entanglement of your spirit and his devotion. He sees a diamond he helped shape, a goddess he has summoned. And the goddess is wearing his rose.
The final note of the performance is met with a silence so profound it feels like the room has forgotten to breathe. Then, the roar of the crowd erupts. It is a thunderous validation that almost shakes the Opera Populaire.
As the curtain falls, you are swamped. Stagehands offer hurried bows, fellow singers pat your shoulders, and the managers, Richard and Firmin, are practically tripping over their own feet to offer praise. You nod politely, your smile a practiced mask, while your heart remains elsewhere. You break away as soon as decorum allows, the adrenaline still humming in your body as you retreat to the sanctuary of your dressing room.
The door has barely clicks shut, its lock sliding into place, before his voice reaches you. "I had very high expectations for this evening, Mademoiselle." he begins, his voice thick with an emotion he can't quite hide. "I intended to show you our work is never finished."
He does not speak through the mirror this time. As you turn from the door, a shadow detaches itself from the heavy velvet curtains in the corner of the room. Erik steps into the dim candlelight, his presence commanding and yet strangely fragile. He looks at you, his golden eyes immediately dropping to the crimson rose tucked against your heart. A shuddering breath escapes him; one of relief, or perhaps terror at how much power you now hold over him.
"I did not think it was possible," he says, his voice a gravelly rasp. "I have spent my life seeking perfection, Y/N. I have studied every manual and every technique. I believed I could map the limits of what a human voice could do." He takes a step closer, the light catching the sharp line of his mask. "But tonight... you did not just 'play' Elissa. You gave her your own blood. You took the precision I gave you and you used it as a vessel for something I did not create, something I could not create." He looks at you with a reverence that borders on worship. "That was not mere singing. It was art in its most primal, most devastating form. It was... divine."
You look up at him, the adrenaline of the stage softening into a deep, quiet sincerity. You open your mouth to answer, but find that words fail you for the second time today. Your gaze trails off as your mouth closes again, the gravity and profoundness of his words having left you momentarily speechless.
When your voice returns a moment later, it is a frail barely audible sound. "Thank you, Erik," you breathe. You pause, studying the intricate embroidery of his cloak. "When I am on stage I feel like… like the world before me fades into… nothing but a blur of faces and lights." Without even properly noticing, you take a small step toward him. "The only thing left is...", you trail off, feeling that annoying sense of shyness rise up again. A small breath leaves you. „I sing for you.“, you conclude, finally managing to look at him again.
Erik hands, usually so steady on the keys, tremble at his sides. He starts moving his fingers nervously. He’s trying with all his might to surpress the emotion you invoke in him, swallowing hard. A shift occurs in his expression then. The vulnerability remains, but it is sharpened by a cold, simmering edge of possessive pride. The memory of the foyer - of Raoul de Chagny with his lilies - returns to him. He lets out a short, jagged sound that might have been a laugh if it weren't so bitter.
"And yet, the world continues to try and claim you," he murmurs, his eyes narrowing. "That insolent boy." He spits. "I saw the way he caught your wrist. I heard the way he spoke of 'protecting' you, as if you were a porcelain doll that might break without his family’s name to shield you." Erik takes another step, closing the distance until you can feel the cool, restless energy radiating off him. "He offered you an estate. He offered you his 'best' teachers. He wanted so desperately to pull you into his safe, bright world." A dark, triumphant ghost of a smirk touches his lips. "And you left him standing there. You rejected his safety. You left him with his wilting flowers and his bruised ego."
He reaches out, his fingers hovering just inches from your face, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel the heat of him. "That fool," he whispers, his voice dropping to a register that vibrates in your very bones. "He hasn't the slightest inkling. While he dreams of your hand in marriage, I am the one who holds your soul when you sing." He searches your face, his eyes burning in triumph. The air between you is so charged it feels as though a single spark could ignite the room. You find yourself leaning into the heat of his hand, your heartbeat thundering against the rose in your bodice.
