Work Text:
“I need your help, Ferdinand. I’m scared. We’re all scared.”
Dorothea’s words echo in Ferdinand’s mind. A desperate plea from her heart and from the minds of many others. For years, a “Phantom” has been haunting the Mittelfrank Opera House, his antics ramping up ever since Dorothea moved from a simple chorus girl to a true star of the stage.
This Phantom seems to have set a target upon Dorothea, threatening all who dare to eclipse her talent.
Ferdinand remembers the desperation in her eyes as Dorothea requested his help. He remembers how the whole Opera Company looked to him as the man fit to dispose of the Phantom once and for all.
Yes, he is the Opera House’s savior.
Ferdinand shakes a bit as he settles into his seat in Box Five, the same seat that the Phantom had warned anyone from occupying. Yet Ferdinand simply can’t back down from the challenge of confronting such a menace, especially when lives are at stake, when the performers are in fear for their own safety. No, he will see to it that this Phantom is taken care of, no matter the cost.
Ferdinand leans forward in his seat. The show on stage is going exactly opposite of the Phantom’s requests. Manuela Casagranda, Mittelfrank’s reigning prima donna, takes the lead as the Countess, with Dorothea performing as the muted pageboy. They have dared to outshine Dorothea’s rising star, all in an attempt to draw out the Phantom. To lead him into their trap. Ferdinand rests a shaking hand over the pistol in his coat, tucked safely away. All set to confront the Phantom head on.
Though Ferdinand sympathizes with the Phantom in one aspect: he would much rather hear Dorothea’s dulcet tones in a role such as the Countess, but luring out the Phantom takes precedence.
He’s sure to catch this demon in the act.
A shiver runs down Ferdinand’s spine at the thought. Is he daft for colluding in such a fatal plan? Will the Phantom target him specifically? Will he become this madman’s next victim, left to hang from the fly loft, dangling above the actors during curtain call? With a thick swallow, he brings his shaking fingers to his neck, ensuring no rope has been slung around it.
Yet.
Ferdinand solemnly hopes to keep Dorothea, Manuela, and the rest of the cast safe from a devastating fate.
The show continues, Manuela’s voice trilling up an octave as Dorothea prances at her side. After a quick moment, Ferdinand takes in a sharp breath, feeling as though the air is constricted in his lungs. His thoughts are so preoccupied, he can barely pay attention to the performance, caught off guard when Dorothea shares an innocent kiss with Manuela.
It shouldn’t surprise Ferdinand so much — he reviewed the script before the show began — but the haze of fear occupies his attention. He barely even notices when an unsettling force moves into the box, creeping up behind him.
“Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?”
A warm puff of air upon his ear, cool leather-covered hands around his neck. Ferdinand freezes at the arrival of his guest, both wanted and unwanted.
“So it’s true,” Ferdinand chokes out, trying to keep calm. His body refuses to move, arms frozen over the armrests. “There truly is a Phantom of the Opera.”
The Phantom laughs, voice low and dripping with venom. His hands tighten around Ferdinand’s neck, but not enough to block his airway completely, just enough to make him gasp.
“It is I,” he says, a snake’s hiss on his tongue. He leans forward, just enough for Ferdinand to see him in his periphery. A dark mess of curls covers half of his face, and yet beneath his hair another obstruction blocks Ferdinand’s view: a porcelain white mask, hiding the Phantom’s identity from all who wish to uncover it.
The Phantom laughs, the sound leaving goosebumps along Ferdinand’s skin. “What will you do with me now that I’ve fallen into your trap?”
Ferdinand sits like a puppet, tied upon strings guided by the Phantom’s hands. He was foolish to think their plan would truly work. The pistol tucked into his lapel is forgotten. Instead, he turns his head to the side, to gaze upon the Phantom. To see the face of the man who will, no doubt, end his very life.
The Phantom’s hold relinquishes for a moment. Ferdinand hears the shuffling of feet, backing up towards the interior of the box.
Does this man think he can get away so easily?
Ferdinand rises to his feet, his head swimming as he tries to regain some of his breath. He turns and gets a better view of the Phantom of the Opera. Beneath the porcelain mask, bright green eyes peer upon him, a toxic shade that rattles Ferdinand to his core. He swallows, his body shaking.
This is the moment, the opportunity for Ferdinand to be Mittelfrank’s savior. To rid the Opera House of this man.
Yet he stands still as a statue, struggling to fill his lungs.
The Phantom isn’t moving, either.
Is he scared? Preparing for his next move? Ferdinand can’t tell. He takes a cautious step forward, his body taking charge without a thought. Ferdinand must certainly be daft, to approach a man who was moments away from ending his life.
And yet the Phantom stands before Ferdinand, head tilted to the side, studying Ferdinand as much as Ferdinand is studying him. It makes Ferdinand’s heart skip a beat and he reaches out a hand, curious about what lies beneath the mask.
Anticipation builds within Ferdinand’s heart, his pulse thrumming in his ears until the sound of the show is nothing but a muted, garbled mess behind him.
Just as Ferdinand’s fingers are about to come in contact with pristine porcelain, the Phantom smacks Ferdinand’s hand to the side.
“Don’t be a fool,” the Phantom hisses, matching Ferdinand ’s movements and stepping forward, closing the distance between them even more.
At first, Ferdinand’s goal was to vanquish a demon, but now he sees him. A man in the flesh, not a specter that haunts the walls of the Opera House but a living, breathing man. Ferdinand can feel him, his hand still stinging from the Phantom’s earlier strike. He can smell him, a slightly toxic scent that tickles his nose so sweetly, causing his knees to shake.
Is this what Dorothea has been through? Is this the specter that has been haunting her through her mirror, whisking her away to a secret labyrinth beneath the Opera House?
Has Dorothea’s heart been fluttering madly as Ferdinand’s is now? Has this man affected her the same way that he’s affecting Ferdinand?
The Phantom takes another step forward and before long, overcomes Ferdinand. His cape flutters behind him, making him a larger, more imposing figure. Ferdinand can’t help how his knees buckle, how he falls against the back of his seat, suspended only by the magnetic force of the Phantom.
The performance continues on the stage, uninterrupted, the audience’s attention rightfully set to the stage.
“You have tempted my Angel of Music,” the Phantom says, his face looming close to Ferdinand’s, cool breath brushing against Ferdinand’s lips, “and forced her into a role unsuited for her talents.”
“Yes,” Ferdinand says without hesitation, locked within that toxic green gaze. He had no choice but to follow through with such a plan. The Phantom may be mad, but he is not wrong about what Dorothea deserves.
And yet, Ferdinand’s heart sinks to hear the Phantom refer to Dorothea as his “Angel of Music.” The aching in his chest builds as his lips part, his face daring to move closer towards the Phantom. Foolish thoughts in his head, racing: What about me? What does he think of me?
Lips quivering, Ferdinand attempts to swallow the lump growing in his throat. The Phantom inches closer. Ferdinand feels his body move, powered only by the Phantom’s puppet strings. Stuck within his grasp.
He reaches up before he has a chance to fall, grasping the Phantom’s arm, pulling him closer. Until their lips meet and Ferdinand is sent to another plane.
Yes, this is the fantasy Dorothea described; a man so enticing with sweeping music and pretty words. With fingers that delicately dance across the organ’s keys. Ferdinand eyes shut, to lock him within the moment. The Phantom kisses him back, his lips softer than Ferdinand expected, his tongue warm and comforting. Ferdinand has no choice but to invite him in.
Ferdinand mewls. He runs his fingers through the Phantom’s dark curls, pulling him in closer. Damn those puppet strings. Ferdinand wants control now, wants more of what this mystery man has to offer.
If his scent is toxic, his taste is intoxicating, Ferdinand’s mind a swirling mess of fantasy and pleasure. Not even Manuela’s aria can shake him from this state.
The Phantom grumbles out a moan as they part, breath fast and hot against Ferdinand’s cheek as he pulls back. His mask sits askew on his face, revealing more of the man behind the visage. Ferdinand stares, taking in the sight; cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.
He pulls the Phantom back in, eager for more, but his second kiss is cut short as the Phantom cuts the puppet strings loose, letting Ferdinand fall to the floor of the box.
The Phantom stands, eyes wide as he wipes his lips dry. Another moment passes before he realizes his mask is about to reveal his identity. Slight panic fills his face before he’s able to regain his composure. He turns towards the door, his cape fluttering in his wake.
“W-wait!” Ferdinand scurries to his feet, lips still warm and wet. He grabs the Phantom’s arm before he can disappear. “Where are you…?”
“Insolent fool,” the Phantom spits out, a slight quaver to his voice. He stands still at the door to Box Five before turning on his heel, to look Ferdinand in the eye once more. He’s markedly less threatening than before, especially now that Ferdinand has become familiar with his taste.
The sting of the Phantom’s insult fades as he huffs out a laugh, reaching out his gloved hand, letting his fingers dance just below Ferdinand’s chin. “What an interesting turn of events. But for what it’s worth, you will not succeed.”
The Phantom leans forward one last time, pressing his lips softly against Ferdinand’s. A long, soft kiss before he parts, leaving Ferdinand dazed, standing on unsteady legs.
His mind does little more than buzz incessantly between his ears, his last few moments replaying in his head over and over: his failure to take advantage of his proximity to the Phantom. But in his mind’s eye every scenario to defeat the Phantom ends with a kiss, with a delicate touch that leaves Ferdinand numb.
A shrill scream pierces through the din of his mind. Ferdinand turns. The entirety of the Opera House stares at the stage in abject horror. A stagehand hangs from the fly loft, all the actors below staring and pointing. Dorothea and Manuela are locked in each other’s arms, faces white with fear. The audience clambers over their seats, desperate to leave. The theatre exits are packed as they try to file out at once.
Ferdinand stands in Box Five, stares at the chaos before him. His pistol sits unused in his jacket, his lips showing proof of his shame. Of his failure. He did not act, could not act.
Ferdinand is no savior, not when the Phantom strikes yet again.