Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

You wiped your hands nervously on the pant leg of your suit.

The gala was tonight.

The Maestro hadn’t gotten any better, but he would be watching in the audience.

“Good luck.” Blackiron said gently before watching you leave.

They had a concerned look on their blank face, seemingly worried about how you would perform.

Stepping in front of the stage, you felt the heavy eyes of the orchestra watching you, and the audience’s attention drawn to you for a brief moment. With a quiet inhale, you stepped onto the podium and raised your arms, baton in hand.

Instantly, instruments went into place. The cellos sit up straighter. Flutes set their fingers into position. The whole opera house seemed to let out a sigh, as if the building were alive. The movements flowed like water.

“Don’t think about it too hard.” You could hear the Maestro’s scolding in your mind. “Loosen your posture! Don’t stand so stiff. Remember, the orchestra follows you.”

And they did.

Like air brushing gently across grass, the orchestra’s bows all rippled in sync, and you were the wind pushing them for the show.

Although you did focus on conducting the orchestra, you couldn’t help but sneak an occasional glance at the actress on stage.

Tsera.

She looked beautiful, in that crystal blue dress. She was adorned with crystals, but the gemstones and sparkles couldn’t dream to compare to her gorgeous grey eyes that shone like moonlight on a river.

Beautiful. Like the quiet breeze over the creek just outside the city that you liked to skip rocks in. Your body went on autopilot as you drifted off thinking about her, maybe sweeping her away at the end of the performance and taking her to the river. Maybe you’ll even buy some flowers beforehand.

In the vaults under the stage, something stirred.

Something that festered quietly, admired from a distance.

The theatre was bustling with life as the performance ended. Not even bothering to change out of your navy blue tailcoat and suit, you bolted straight outside in a rush to find the nearest florist, a faint trail of silver glitter behind you.

“You’re dressed well for a date.” A voice from behind made you jump as you were paying for your flowers.

The old woman behind the counter chuckled.

“Such a flattering young one,” she stated. “dressed so well for a night out.”

“I just came back from a performance.” You admit sheepishly. “May I have the bouquet now?”

“Ah, yes yes, of course.” The old woman gingerly handed you the navy blue flowers, some dusted with a fine pearlescent sheen of bronze.

“What kind of performance?” The man behind you asked as he paid for his own flowers. A white bouquet with red wrapping paper, tied with a black ribbon.

His presence felt vaguely familiar, tugging in the back of your mind. A distant call to a memory, a faint tingle in your spine. The gentle quiet of the stage. Burnt flash paper and mint.

“I conducted tonight’s gala at the Opera Populaire.” You stated, puffing out your chest as you allowed yourself this small moment of pride.

“Ah, I saw.” He replied, leaving a generous tip for the old woman. “You did well.” The man continued, feeding your ego like he knew you needed the attention. “I think you should be the one receiving the flowers, in this case.” He turned to face you, half his face covered by a thick lace veil, but his skin was a lustrous shade of mocha.

You chuckled, resisting the urge to grab him by the shoulders and start jumping for joy.

“Thank you, monsieur.” You replied. “But really, I don’t need anyone to buy me flowers.”

He chuckled, a genuine, pleasant sound that sounded better than the orchestra alone.

“Please. I insist.” He handed you the bouquet.

You’re unsure what compelled you to take it, but you accepted the modest bouquet, unable to refuse a gift from someone as charming as he was. After all, you had never received a gift from a fan before… Mostly because he was likely your first to come up and say it.

“Merci-” You began, but he had already disappeared, as if he were nothing but an illusion of mist.

The old woman had her back turned, and you figured there was no point in asking her where the mysterious man had gone.

Returning to the theatre, you first ran to your room up in the attic to place the roses gifted to you in a vase with water near the moonlight, setting down the bouquet you had bought for Tsera nearby. The white petals seemed to glow a faint blue in the welcoming rays of the night. Standing for a moment to admire it, you wondered if you would ever see that man again, if he would really come back next time. You wondered this as you left your room, rushing downstairs once more. You went to go look for your newfound muse in the main hall… Hopefully she hadn’t already gone somewhere else, or god forbid with someone else.

Luckily, or unluckily, you weren’t sure how to feel about it, she was standing basking in the attention of avid fans of her first debut. Quietly approaching from behind, you stood quietly behind Tsera until she shooed away the first wave of people.

“It seems you’re more popular than the Vicomte." You commented, and she whipped around to face you.

“You-!” She began, but her shoulders sagged when she realized it was you. “Dieu…” She sighed.

Letting out a light chuckle, you brushed a few leftover pieces of glitter from her shoulder.

“You sang beautifully tonight.” You stated. “It was an honor to conduct for you, angel.”

A light flush dusted Tsera’s face as you spoke.

“Really, it would’ve been nothing without you.” She replied.

“Someone’s willing to say it at least.” You thought bitterly.

“I’ve learned to accept that not being crowded isn’t bad at all.” You replied. “It seems like it gets overwhelming.” But even as you spoke, envy curled inside of you like a wisp of smoke. Elusive, but painfully there.

You thought back to the man at the flower shop, how it felt to revel in the light for once, the glory of the glittering spotlight finally on you. It warmed you to the core, made you want to chase it more. Or if not for anyone, but at least for your one fan.

“I respect you for that.” Tsera sighed. “It’s nice, but…” She trailed off. “I don’t care about fame if none of it truly means anything to me.”

You nodded.

“Well, if you’re willing…” You started. “I-”

Tsera glanced up at you, like she was seeing something better than the spotlight. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could start…

“Tsera!” A voice called. You glanced up.

The patron was making his way through the crowd, blatantly ignoring the owners that were hot on his heels, holding a bouquet… Oh, enculé… Those junk business professionals were holding YOUR bouquet. They must’ve seen you run up to your room with it and come back down without it… So wrapped up in cherishing your first gift from a fan, you had forgotten to grab it before you left.

“I-” She began, but Luis had already arrived.

“You sang like an angel tonight.” He complimented, handing her the bouquet.

Her eyes lit up like moons.

“Oh..!” She gasped. “Oh look!” She held the bouquet up to you. “Isn’t it such a beautiful shade?” Turning back to Luis, she spoke to him with adoration that you thought was reserved for you. “You remembered!”

“What?” You asked, momentarily snapping out of your jealous reverie.

“Oh…” She flushed. “I’ll tell you another time.” Tsera said dismissively.

“Right.” You muttered quietly. “Well… I best be off, then.”

Tsera gave a distant wave as Luis swept her away, just the way you were supposed to.

You stood in box six of the theatre, staring distantly at the stage. The party was long over, it was almost about midnight now.

Sighing bitterly, you leaned against the railing. But even then, you were mentally kicking yourself for being so foolish, thinking Tsera would like you back. It was just a silly crush, you had barely even spent any time with the actress anyways.

The theatre was dark, but despite the fact the stage was empty, the curtains drawn, and the night crept in, there was a quiet melody. A faint lullaby, a quiet, lulling orchestra piece that made your heart physically ache with longing. It was as if the music amplified every feeling of yours by tenfold. You couldn’t help but bite back tears listening to the soft music coming from god-knows-where.

“Merde.” You sighed, letting out a quiet exhale.

In the back of your mind, you wondered if you would ever conduct again soon. Of course, you wished the Maestro well health, you cared for him more than anything.

But…

The quiet melody filled your head again, the feeling overtaking all your senses. You wondered, distantly, where it came from. Coming down from the box, you returned to the stage to investigate. Peering around the dark, you quietly wished you brought a candle or a lamp with you. However, you didn’t have to fumble around for long when you saw a sliver of light coming from behind the curtain. Wandering towards it, you were met with a half-open trapdoor that flooded a small area backstage with a warm, inviting amber light. The music seemed to be drifting from below, compelling you to follow. Wherever it was coming from, you wanted to curl up by it and rest for a good while.

You pulled the trapdoor open, and it came undone quietly, the only sound filling your mind was the music, and the occasional sound of the floorboards creaking underneath you. It was the vault under the stage, the one that actors dropped below if needed for the play. However, the space looked rather… Comfy. Following the music, you slipped down the ladder with ease. Your navy coat had been tossed somewhere long ago, leaving you in your slacks and white blouse. For whatever reason, there was a whole piano stuffed underneath the stage, where a man with a cloak draped over his shoulders sat, playing the instrument without resting his hands on the keys. Around him, working with some kind of magic that even the glittering stage couldn’t replicate, four hands hung suspended in the air, one pair playing a violin, the other holding a music box, and a sixth couple was responsible for the piano.

Entranced by the one-man (magic?) orchestra, you leaned against one of the pillars supporting the underground structure. Unluckily for you, the beam creaked softly under your weight. Despite the fact the noise was quiet and hardly noticeable with the music, the melody stopped abruptly.

Immediately, the thoughts came crowding in again.

Tsera.

Luis.

The spotlight that would never turn its glittering eyes toward you.

But standing here, the warmth of the spotlight chilled in comparison to the soft atmosphere around you. The man turned slightly in your direction, a familiar face that resurfaced in your memory once more.

The ghost in the rigging, the mirage that you stumbled across in the flower shop.

The phantom of the opera,

The feared man that struck terror into the hearts of the most hardy stagehands… Hanging out in the musty trap room, playing a one-man musical at midnight.

“Did I interrupt you?” You asked quietly, voice frayed with fear and the subtle rasp from not speaking a majority of the night.

One of the hands reached up to brush imaginary dust off of the Phantom’s cape.

“You could never be a bother to me.” He replied in the same tone. “Did you appreciate the gift?”

“The flowers were lovely.” You mused.

Despite the fact that this man had hid from the light for so long, lingering in the shadows, the amber warmth seemed to welcome his presence just as much as the darkness did. He paused, then turned his focus back to the piano.

“Come.” He commanded.

One word, but he spoke it so confidently you felt needed to comply with his requests. You walked over carefully, suddenly hyper aware of the hands floating around you without question.

“I’m glad you liked it.” He continued, resuming his quiet melody.

You hummed quietly, watching him play.

“It was the least I could do for your exceptional skill.” He states, glancing at you once more. He held the aura of a dog that liked to sulk in corners.

His face was much too pretty to be covered by a mask, but you kept that thought to yourself.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying my work.” You replied, shuffling in your spot nervously.

He eyed you up and down for a moment before you felt one of the hands nudge your back.

“Sit.” He gestured with the hand that poked you in the back.

You hesitantly took a seat next to him as the melody continued, nothing but the music and his voice filling your head.

It was enchanting.

The same white gloved hand rested on your waist, and he finally raised his hands on the keys of the piano.

“Do you know how to play?” He asked as he started to play, his voice a soothing, low sound that contrasted with the melody. The song seemed to highlight every lovely note of his voice.

“Only a little.” You replied, joining in on the other side of the piano. “The Maestro taught me some.”

Your keys were slightly off beat, too fast, too rushed, as if you were in a hurry to see how fast you could get to the top.

Artful watched you like one would admire an actor on stage. He urged you closer, the white hand that rested on your back pulling you closer to him. Eventually, the both of you sat shoulder to shoulder.

“You’re playing too fast.” He commented. “Slow down. It’s not a race.” He continued.

You tensed whenever he spoke, as if his musical charm wasn’t quite getting to you as much as he anticipated.

…

It wouldn’t matter.

It would soon enough.

And you would be his conductor, bending him to your will with every little gesture of yours, he is your faithful servant, your loyal companion.

"Relax." He said softly. "The keys come out too harsh when you're sitting so stiffly."

You glanced over at him, then loosened your posture just a fraction. He exhaled quietly, the two of you continuing your duet with the sound of the music box and the violin in the background. The performance didn't seem too out of place in the trap room, the melody flowing clearly through the theatre without disturbing the natural peace of the opera house.

As he wrapped up the last bits of the song, he noticed that your playing had faded away quietly without him noticing. Glancing over, your head against his shoulder as you slept quietly, he sat and watched you for a minute before standing and lifting you gingerly.

Moving quietly through the rest of the building, he slipped into the attic without waking a single soul in the dormitories. Using one of the six hands he had at his disposal, he nudged your door open and gingerly set you down on your bed, tucking you in. After he did so, he sat down beside you, the bed dipping slightly under his weight. You didn't look as tense as you slept, he noticed. The mild furrow in your brow had gone away, and you seemed to melt right into the bed. It was a comforting sight to see, he thought. Raising his hand to lightly touch your face, he contemplated kissing you, even.

"Not yet." He reminded himself, pulling his hand away and standing to his full height once more.

As he forced himself to turn his gaze away from you, he glanced at the roses on your vanity, shining at him quietly in the moonlight.

His adoration was the only spotlight you'd ever come to need.

With that affirmation in mind, he exited quietly the way he came, as if he were slipping through the cracks of the wooden floor.

He would be back in the morning, to wish you luck again.