Hey all! So as I mentioned in a prior post, I’ve been rethinking a LOT of how I interpret a relationship between Phantom and Woodrow - while I still very much enjoy them as a couple, I’m also intrigued by how some key differences between them could impact any potential relationship between them. That ended up leading to this practice writing, which honestly has helped me flesh out how I view their dynamic even more. Unfortunately this one is not centered around Phandrow as a ship—rather two people who expected to find common ground, but instead found a side to each other that they can’t allow themselves to bear, and includes plenty of personal headcanons for both Phantom and Woodrow. Regardless, I hope you guys enjoy!
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Hollow Hunger
If he hadn’t been watching his expression closely he would have missed how Phantom’s brow furrowed for half a second, only to instantly vanish back into the ever-confident persona he so effectively wielded.
“If anything, I’m hurt, my dear,” the spectre continued, haughtily turning his body to the side while keeping the corner of his eye on Woodrow. “You of all people must understand how integral the collective audience is to my craft. I am their idol, and they are my lifeblood. It’s only the natural order of things that I do what I must to thrive as the being I am. Furthermore…” Keeping his chest puffed, Phantom turned back to the rangy poet and tilted himself forward, just enough to be eye to eye with the gaze carefully concealed by those spectacles.
“What you claim as cruel, as avaricious, esurient even, I see as a blessing. The way of the everyman is one they take for granted, nary a thought to how much more they could become—to me. To I, Tom Phan! That is no less than an honor, mon ami!” Phantom proclaimed, raising himself back up with his arms spread in the air. “To be part of something bigger and brighter, to go on as part of the show and the spectacle I bring! Can you not grasp such a privilege, Tristan?”
The Phantom’s grandiose display bore itself in stark contrast before Woodrow’s withering glare, and the poet held no reaction to his companion’s twisted proclamation of solace…other than a less-than-subtle creak of his umbrella’s metal ribs attempting to unfold outwards.
Ignoring Duster’s slew of insults directed at Phantom in the back of his head, Woodrow lifted his chin in direct defiance, scowling scornfully at the opera singer. However much words had failed him before seemed to be of no matter now, as his mouth seemed to speak on its own terms. “What you deem salvation is gluttony when the curtain is pulled back. It is unbridled gluttony and disregard for any existence other than your own.”
Phantom’s beaming smile tugged upwards, his eyes narrowing into an egotistical leer. Woodrow wanted to spit at it.
“You poor poet, spiteful of the one concept you can’t wrap your mind around enough to put to verses.”
“The concept of insatiability,” hissed Woodrow in reply, venom dripping from his voice. “Hollow, insatiable hunger for the gaze of wandering souls doomed by your spotlight. You are but a shadow in need of something to fill it, in order to possess any meaning. But your void is too deep. It can never stay satisfied. And so you once again return to the stage, begging for more eyes to perceive you and ears attuned to hear you, and sharp minds to grasp any meaning to your music.” His voice briefly gave out from his uninterrupted ranting, and he paused for a moment to take a long, shaky inhale.
“Whatever salvation you’ve convinced yourself of for those lesser than you is pure delusion. You consume the words and thoughts and souls of your audience because in the end, you’ve never been more than an empty husk that was never made to hold anything other than empty ego. You are soulless.”
Phantom’s eyes flashed; the warden’s deploring words were accompanied by his constant piercing glare directly into Phantom’s eyes, so intense it felt like Woodrow was reaching prying paws into his very mind and feeling around for something to crush in his palm. His ears flattened, forcing away the horrid, itchy feeling and let out a scoff of contempt.
“Save your words spoken for those on the page,” he growled, now fully turning his back to the warden. “I was a fool to expect any sort of kinship with you. Perhaps I am truly alone in my experience…but someone of your caliber has no footing to condemn anything about my existence. If there is a splinter in my eye, there are entire branches growing from yours.” Floating back to his desk, he picked up the copy of The Will and the Wavering and carelessly flung it back towards Woodrow. It hit him in the chest and he clutched it with one arm, its pages crumped against his body.
“I fail to see what strength your argument has by attempting such a comparison,” Woodrow sniffed.
Phantom’s shoulders stiffened from behind, a clear indicator of him gripping the desk. He turned his head back to shoot Woodrow a dismal glare. “Think of me as that petty, do you? Or are you going to stand there and tell me proudly that you’re not the bane of Palette Prime by choice?”
Woodrow’s ears rung for a moment and he cursed internally, giving his umbrella a small but deliberate jab at the ground. Not now.
Let me at that sorry sack of ectoplasm! Duster snarled. Give me the word and I’ll flay him! I’ll rip his heart out!
He jabbed the tip of the umbrella at the ground once more, before tucking it under his right arm.
“I’m afraid our stories are not as similar as you would hope for, Tom.” Woodrow, still clutching the book in his other hand, turned around to the door, unwilling to give Phantom the dignity of even meeting his gaze. “Amidst the roiling waves of chaos my life brings, I have found peace within. You cannot say the same.” He closed his eyes for a moment then opened them again, his expression hardening into a blank stare in front of him, and he pushed the door open.
“Goodbye, Tom.” Without a single glance back he left the office and started down the hall to the studio’s exit, not letting up his firm grip on his umbrella.
