Discover Top Posts Tagged with #thisangelinhell

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 previous chapter | next chapter read on wattpad

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.

#thisangelinhell

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#thisangelinhell