Chapter Text
Will isn’t sure how long they walk in the darkness. They are hand in hand, footsteps perfectly matched, breathing patterns aligned, almost as if they are one person and not two, and Will catches himself looking at his Angel from time to time, just to be sure that there is someone actually there and not just his own imagining.
The third time it happens, his Angel notices. “Is something the matter, my dear?” His voice echoes in the darkness, low and dark, and it sends shivers up Will’s spine.
“No,” Will says immediately. “No, of course not.”
His Angel seems to not believe him; perhaps he spoke too quickly. “If you would like to return to your room – ”
“No!” Will says, louder this time, so that it bounces down the tunnel, like a chorus of denial. “No, please. Don’t leave me.”
His Angel comes to a stop. Will can barely see him in the darkness, but he can hear him – he can hear the swish of cloth, the intake of breath, the press of shoes against stone, and so he is not surprised when his Angel’s other hand grasps his and the Angel’s voice comes from in front of him instead of beside him. To his face, his Angel purrs, “Don’t worry, my dear Will. I would never leave you.”
“Good,” Will breathes, looking upwards to where he can just barely make out the glimmer of a pale face.
The face moves, and Will feels the gentlest kiss against his hand. It is a strange feeling – half cold, hard and unyielding, and half warm, soft and pliable. The coldness reminds Will of the masks the actors wear, sometimes, for masquerades or plays, although he cannot think of one that bares half of the mouth. Usually the masks cover the whole face, or the upper half with the eyes.
Then again, those are masks for humans. What can be said about how an angel wears a mask?
“Ah, but where are my manners?” his Angel says. “I should not let my brave star languish in the darkness; you have toiled there long enough. Let me see you, my darling, and let you gaze upon me, so there is no doubt between us.”
The Angel releases his hands, and Will stands frozen in the darkness. He should not doubt his Angel, for he has done all he promised and more, but some small animal part of Will cannot help but wonder if perhaps he has been played for a fool, if this is no Angel at all, if Will has danced to the whims of a devil and now he must pay the price here in this cold, dark tunnel, alone and afraid. If he will die here, torn apart and devoured, his bones left as a warning for the next child who hums to himself in the darkness of night in the corridors as he scrubs the floors and thinks that the voice who calls to him within the walls is an angel come from heaven.
Yet the thought has barely crossed his mind when he hears the beautiful sound of a match being struck. A tiny orange flame, like a little sun, comes into being, and it bobbles up and down before it blooms into a beautiful glow as his Angel lights a lamp.
It is actually a tad overwhelming, after so long in the dark; Will shies away, a hand over his face, half out of fear and half out of pain.
But his Angel – his patient, wonderful, guiding light – his Angel approaches him with calm acceptance, and takes his hand, and lifts the lamp so that it shines across their faces.
“Look at me, Will,” his Angel coaxes. “See for yourself; I am no monster, waiting to devour you whole. I am here, and whole, and no devil.”
Slowly, cautiously, Will lowers his hand and raises his gaze from the floor. He finds that his Angel is dressed almost entirely in black, a fine cut suit that hugs his body as though it was sewn onto him. It would not, Will thinks, look out of place at some of the fine events Will’s father used to entertain for. The suit is high-collared, covering most of his Angel’s neck, but it does nothing to cover up the strong cut of his Angel’s jaw, so sharp Will half thinks he could cut his hand upon it.
Then he looks up, and beholds his Angel’s face for the first time, and is struck anew as speechless as he was when the Angel first sung to him, all those years ago, like a siren in the walls.
Half of his Angel’s face is covered in a white mask, as form-fitting as his suit. It is a strange mask, for it gleams dully in the light, as though it is porcelain or some other fine material, and strangest of all, there is no cut out for the eye, only a slight depression to indicate where the eye might be.
The other half of his Angel’s face, though, is visible and wonderfully human. He has lips, which are curved into a slight smile; he has cheekbones, sharp and angled like a knife; and he has an eye, fixed straight at Will, although Will cannot determine the color. He is handsome and regal, like a prince out of a fairytale, from his shiny shoes to his top hat, and Will’s breath catches in his throat.
His Angel seems similarly affected by the sight of Will, although Will isn’t really sure why. “My Will,” his Angel murmurs, even lower than before. “How lovely you are. I am so glad you sang for me, this night.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Will sees his Angel raise one hand towards his face; it is trembling, ever so slightly, but it settles when his Angel places it against Will’s face, cupping his cheek and brushing at his hair. His hand is warm and large and strong, and Will gives into the urge to lean into it like a cat.
“I have always sung for you,” Will tells him. “Every note, every word – it has been for you. Surely you have seen?”
“I do now,” his Angel tells him. “So come, then. We need not travel much further before you may rest your poor aching feet.”
“This is nothing,” Will laughs, even as he allows the Angel to move them forward again. “You used to have me dance from when the moon rose to when she set, and even then keep on going, until I dreamed each step in my sleep.”
His Angel smiles. “Practice makes perfect.”
“I wouldn’t dream to call myself perfect.”
“No, of course not,” his Angel says, and squeezes his hand. “That would be my call to make.”
The tunnel finally ceases to slope downwards, smoothing out into a plateau, so that Will no longer feels like he is a moment away from tripping and tumbling to his death. The stone beneath their feet is ancient and worn, so smooth Will can hardly feel the different pieces through his thin slippers. And now that there is light, Will can make out the sight of cobwebs and dust all over, as though this tunnel is hardly ever traveled. The opera house is enormous, of course, but this place gives Will the sense of something old and ancient and forbidding, as if this is sacred ground that the opera house was built on top of and then forgot about.
A fitting place, perhaps, for his Angel to dwell.
They pass underneath an archway, and Will halts in surprise, for there, hobbled to the wall, is a horse. The horse is not glamorous or majestic – it has no wings or golden bridle or such – but it nickers at his Angel and seems friendly, at least.
“My faithful steed,” his Angel says, setting the lamp into a place on the wall and untying the horse. “Have you ever ridden before, my dear?”
“N – No,” Will stammers.
He has seen horses before, yes; the Vicomte had two whole stables of them, and the only thing he had been prouder of than his horses was his pigs. But riding a horse and seeing them gallop across the field are two very different things.
“She will not hurt you,” his Angel says soothingly. “Come – offer her your hand. Let her smell you. Yes. And touch her nose, here; feel how soft it is. Feel her breath against your skin. Feel her gentle heart.”
Will does so. The horse’s nose is indeed soft, like the finest velvet, and although she snorts when Will touches her, she does not appear angry. Rather, Will gets the sense that she is curious, like a dog deciding if a man is friend or foe. Either way, she loses interest in him after a few moments, and turns her head to lip at his Angel’s clothes.
“Behave, now,” his Angel tells her sternly. “We have a guest tonight.”
When his Angel leads forward, Will stares at the confusing array of buckles and straps, unsure where to grab, but his Angel merely comes to his side and lifts him into the saddle, as if he is a dainty maiden. It is awkward and strange, to have his seat snorting and shifting below him, and Will slides his leg over to try and get a better grip.
“There, see?” his Angel says, patting at the horse’s rump. “You’re a natural.”
Will doesn’t feel like a natural at all, so he just holds on tighter to the saddle. “Do you mean for me to guide her? I don’t know how.”
His Angel laughs. It echoes differently down here; Will gets the sense that this is a place where many tunnels meet, like the center of a giant maze. Still chuckling, his Angel grasps the saddle and fits his foot into one of the many loops and twists, heaving himself up behind Will.
“You speak like you think I will abandon you,” his Angel says, amused and warm into Will’s ear, like warm water poured down his spine. He rests a heavy hand against Will’s stomach and gathers up the reins with the other. “Don’t worry, Will; I will not abandon you. I am your guide, remember?”
“So where are we going?”
“To a place where I can truly hear you sing for you,” his Angel replies. “To see if you are ready.”
And then he kicks the horse into motion, and Will is too busy clutching at him to think of more questions to ask.
When the ride is over, his Angel pulling the horse to a quick stop, Will finds himself opening his mouth and asking if that is it. He can understand, now, why people pay exorbitant prices for horses and to ride horses. This horse is pretty, to be sure, but riding her felt like riding the wind, like flying, and Will regrets that the flight is over so soon.
“I see you are no longer afraid,” his Angel observes as he helps Will down. “Did you enjoy that?”
“It felt like flying,” Will confesses. He raises a tentative hand and brushes the horse’s long neck, and she buts her head against him playfully. “I can see why you love her.”
“She has carried me faithfully for many years, and without complaint,” his Angel remarks. “But no further; my home is not so easily conquered by a creature of the land. Are you afraid of water, my dear?”
Will thinks of the sea – salty and loud and windy, so powerful it had pulled Will’s hat clear off his head so that Tobias had to dive for it – and blushes. “No,” he says. “But oftentimes it has made a fool of me.”
“Don’t worry,” his Angel promises, extending a hand. “I have a boat.”
Will follows his Angel down some stairs, at the bottom of which lies a small dock. It is old and worn, like the stones of the path, and Will can see small holes where the slats have worn away or broken off. At the end of the dock is a small boat, barely large enough for two people. Unlike the dock, though, it seems new and well-kept, for it has a cushioned seat and two long paddles and a neat coil of rope attached firmly to the stern. If Will had seen the boat on the ocean, he would think it a rather fine boat, for the cushion is deep red and velvet, comfortable and lavish in a way only the rich can afford, and small, like a love boat for young paramours to gather and gossip and giggle, away from the prying eyes of family and friends.
His Angel insists that Will have the cushion at the head of the boat, like a true gentleman, and also insists that Will allow him to do the rowing.
The boat cuts smoothly through the water. There are some waves, but small ones, like the lake is a self-contained one, or perhaps man made one. Will risks a glance down to the waves, and finds that the water is as dark as the night sky during a new moon; he cannot possibly guess how deep it is, and he does not wish to find out.
He wonders, perhaps, if this is how his Angel disposes of those who displease him, and shivers at the thought of dying here and now, in the cold open water, with not even a ripple to betray his death.
“Are you cold?” his Angel asks solicitously. He is rowing, and so must be quite warm from the exercise, but mostly Will admires the strength of his arms and shoulders in perfect efficient harmony, pushing them through the water. “Of course; you have come to me with only a nightgown and slippers. Let me offer you my coat, my darling.”
“No need,” Will demurs. “You promised me it was a short journey.”
His Angel’s teeth – or half of them – gleam in the darkness as he smiles. “A very short one, but I see that you are nervous all the same. Have I led you astray before?”
“No,” Will says, but he finds himself still knotting at the seams in his nightgown. It is white and dainty and flimsy, perfect for sliding underneath the warm covers his bed, and under the cover of darkness he has nothing to fear – but his Angel has remarked multiple times that he wishes to truly see Will, and Will almost wishes he could have dressed in something more . . . appealing. Or at the very least more respectable. He can just imagine what Madame Hobbs might say, if she saw him venturing off into the company of a man – even a gentleman – in nothing but his night things.
His Angel hums. “Why don’t you sing for me, my darling? It will take your mind off of things.”
“And if I do not please you, will you throw me overboard to drown?” Will says, before he can stop himself.
His Angel stops rowing, as abruptly as though Will has struck him. Very slowly, he tilts his head, like a cobra lifting itself upwards and regarding its prey, determining how quickly it will need to strike. The smooth depression in the mask where an eye should be stares at Will like a blank-faced judge, weighing his words against his heart and seeing which tips the scales more, but his Angel’s eye shows nothing but curiosity, as though he is Janus, flipping a coin to see which path he will take.
It is, perhaps, the first time Will feels the true power of his Angel, and understands why others might flee from his judgment.
Will is not sure how long they remain there, bobbing amongst the waves, while his Angel stares at him and Will stares back, wondering if he has just signed his death warrant. Finally, though, his Angel settles back and begins to row again.
“You are truly troubled indeed,” his Angel says, but it is kindly said – or as kindly as his Angel can say it. Will gets the impression that it is more a comment on the turmoil and fear in Will’s mind than the kind of whispered disapproval from those who looked down upon the orphan child of a musician. “Whatever gave you the impression that I intend to kill you, my dear?”
Will swallows hard. “This is where you . . . dispose of some of them. Isn’t it?”
“Dispose of who?”
“The Phantom’s victims. Those who . . . displease . . . you.”
One eyebrow goes up on his Angel’s face. “What need does an Angel have to concern himself with the petty human squabbles of an opera house?”
“What is to say the Phantom is human?” Will counters. “He appears and disappears, and no one knows who. No one knows what he looks as, and all reports are contrary. Some say he is nothing but a fiery head of judgment that burns out your eyes if you see him. He is the guardian of the opera house, if nothing else.”
“Guardian,” his Angel breathes, as if he is tasting the word letter by letter, and unsure if the taste is to his liking. “Guardian, and not demon? Not ill spirit? Not monster?”
Will shakes his head, looking down. “You have only ever harmed those who harmed others, or who spoke ill of the opera house, or who threatened me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Are you denying it?”
His Angel laughs quietly. “You are brave indeed, to try and outwit me. But you still have not answered my question, my darling. Whatever gave you the idea that I would kill you?”
Will lifts his chin and straightens his shoulders. If his Angel deems him unworthy, Will won’t do him the disservice of fighting him, but that does not mean that Will cannot fight to live. His father taught him that. “Because you are letting me into your sanctuary,” Will says, reveling in the faint spark of surprise in his Angel’s eye. “You built this place of safety and fortitude, and you have allowed none inside but you; not even the steed which has always carried you and could never betray you. You cannot let me live, now, if you cannot bind me to you to prevent betrayal.”
His Angel regards him in silence; the echoes of Will’s words have long since been swallowed up into the waves of the water before he sighs and opens his mouth. Will waits, and wonders, and prays.
“But you are bound to me,” his Angel purrs. “You’re as bound to me as the moon is to the earth, as the night is to day, as the blooming rose is to the rising sun.”
Will’s heart races in his ear, almost as loud as his Angel’s voice. He swallows, and says, “I could break the bond.”
“And how would you do that?”
“However I needed to.”
His Angel lazily runs an eye over Will, from his slipper-clad feet to his knotted hands to his bare shoulders where the dress has slipped, and smiles even wider. His answer has pleased the Angel, although Will is not sure why, or how. But either way, he feels surer now that ever than his Angel is dangerous, whether or not he dons the mask of the Phantom.
“You needn’t worry,” his Angel repeats, softly, like a man coaxing a cat to trust him. “I would not kill you, my darling. Not here, at least. If I were to end you, I would honor you fully, for you are a truly rare treasure. Few indeed would have the sight to know me as the true guardian of this house, as opposed to the monster devouring it from the inside.”
Will’s eyes go wide with shock. “Do you mean – ”
“Sing for me,” his Angel commands, cutting him off. “Sing for me, my darling. I would see you, truly, without walls or curtains or people between us. Sing, and let your voice be known to mine ears; they are certainly more abundant than my eyes.”
Head pounding, heart racing, hands trembling, Will opens his mouth and does as his Angel commands: he sings.
Will is not sure how long he sings, or what he sings, or where they go. He focuses his gaze upon his Angel, and the world around them blurs – he blinks, and they are at the shore, his Angel offering him a gallant hand up; he blinks again, and they are outside a house, small but cozy and warmly lit; he blinks again, and his Angel is carrying him, like a bride on her wedding night, effortless and strong, to a place that is warm and soft and dark.
And then he blinks again, and finds that he is scrubbing away sleep from his eyes and pushing thick blankets from his legs, yawning as though he has slept the whole night away – or perhaps the whole week.
Will finds that he is in a bed now, large enough to fit six people and sumptuous enough for a king. The sheets feel as fine as newly spun silk, the mattress as soft as clouds, and the pillows are so richly decorated Will almost feels embarrassed that he disturbed them with his head. His Angel must have carried him, like a child, and removed his slippers, even, for his toes curl freely against the sheets.
When he finally pushes free of the sheets and looks around, he realizes that he is in a small room; it is barely larger than the room he used to sleep in, as a dancer. Yet it has touches of personality in a way Will’s room never did – a stack of papers on the night stand, half melted candles along the wall, a chair with neatly folded clothes. Marks of a human life, as it were.
A note rings out in the darkness; Will turns to face the door and finds that there is light peeking out from under it. The light jumps and dances, like it comes from a fire, and Will feels brave enough to slide his shoes into his slippers and go investigate.
After all, if his Angel brought him into his hearth and home, Will is a guest, and it would abominably rude to kill a guest.
The door opens to a little corridor. Will spies another door, half open, that leads to a small bathroom, but he passes it, for he is more interested in what lies at the end of the corridor. It opens to a sitting room, large enough to entertain a party of six or so, a crackling fireplace at one end and a fine sofa at another. In the middle of the room is a large piano, with sheets of music stacked neatly to the side, and seated atop the bench is his Angel, head bent forward, swaying gently to the music as his fingers fly over the keys.
The music is beautiful and entrancing, nothing like Will has ever heard, but it is certainly not angelic.
Will thinks about the Phantom, and how his Angel spoke of petty human squabbles, and wonders, perhaps, if the Phantom is the face his Angel uses to deal with petty human things. Or perhaps his Angel is the Phantom, two parts of the same whole, and Will has bound himself to a human with the devil’s mastery of shadows and manipulation.
After all, Will’s father bound himself to a monster too, once upon a time, and never saw the hidden fangs in the Vicomte’s smile until it was too late.
Will toes out of his shoes and pads forward, silent as can be. The Vicomte taught him how to be still and quiet, how to not be heard, how to slide his feet against the floor and time his breaths to his movement. Staff are meant only to be seen when called upon, of course, and the children of staff should never even be seen. So Will creeps forward, silent as a mouse, and comes to a stop right behind his Angel.
Angels can appear as humans, of course, and usually do to avoid frightening them, but Will can smell his Angel’s sweat, he can see his Angel’s chest moving as he breathes, he can hear his Angel’s heartbeat.
Perhaps his Angel is no angel at all.
Will hooks a finger under the mask, and cannot fight the gasp at the feel of warm skin – warm human skin – underneath.
His Angel’s hand flashes up, settling tight around his wrist, squeezing as though he means to break it, even though he does not stop playing with his other hand. Calm as the winter breeze, his Angel says, “What are you trying to accomplish, my darling?”
Will pulls, and finds he cannot break the hold. His Angel, human or not, is strong, at least. “You saw me,” Will tells him. “You said we could gaze upon each other, so that there was no doubt.”
“And you have doubt?”
“You never answered me.”
His Angel’s fingers slow, and then stop, teasing out one last sweet note to the heavens before he sighs and drops the hand to his lap. He turns his head, just slightly, and presses that same strange half-cold, half-warm kiss to Will’s palm, like a lover. Then he turns to face Will, truly, and pulls until Will is forced to sit upon the bench or collapse on the floor.
“Very well,” his Angel says, without releasing him. “I am the Phantom of the Opera, then. Is that what you wish to know?”
“So you are human?”
“That is your first question?”
“Would you prefer I ask instead if you would die if I strangled you?”
“Violent little thing,” his Angel laughs. “Could you do it?”
“ . . . I don’t know,” Will confesses, reluctantly. The one time he sneaked into the slaughterhouse, after all, he vomited, and could hardly stomach the tender lamb meat served at dinner that night.
“I think you could,” his Angel says thoughtfully, rubbing his thumb up and down Will’s wrist, like a metronome. “But that is neither here nor there. By your definition, yes, Will – I am human as you are.”
“And by your definition?”
His Angel smiles. “I am so much, much more.”
It’s a chilling statement; Will has seen what happens when men think themselves greater than the rest. But Will would not say it was entirely a lie either, for plenty of men have tried to find the Phantom and failed, and not a single person has yet noticed that Will sings to an Angel at night. Perhaps there is a pedestal, somewhere, above a man and below an angel, where his Angel has carved out a place to live.
“Did I pass your test?” Will asks, because he knows that he has pushed his Angel far enough for one night.
His Angel dips his head. “With flying colors. You are ready, my dear. Beautiful and polished as a diamond, and all the stronger for it.”
“Ready for what?” Will breathes.
“For us to let all know what the music of the night sounds like,” his Angel replies. “Now then; come. You have sung for me, and so it is only right that I let you feast. You have more than earned it.”
“And to see you truly?”
His Angel rises to his feet, kissing Will on his palm again. He holds it tenderly, like a lover, and it makes strange emotions swell in Will’s chest. “That,” his Angel says, “you have yet to earn, my dear. But soon, I think. Soon.”
“How soon?”
“Soon,” his Angel repeats, and leads him into the kitchen. “Soon.”