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How then shall I sing of you – though in all ways you are a worthy theme for song?
– Homer
No one ever sees the Angel; but he is heard by those who are meant to hear him.
– Gaston Leroux
*
When the mirror opened, Grantaire didn’t move from where he was sitting on the bed, too focused on the way the mist billowed out and around the mysterious masked figure on the other side. This was a theater, and opera, and Grantaire was used to the
(smoke and mirrors)
tricks that were used to create an atmosphere of wonder for the audience. He knew them almost by heart, and it was obvious that the figure staring at him wasn’t a ghost or a hallucination. Still, the legend of the Opera Ghost was so ingrained in him that calling him the Phantom was second nature. And even if just speaking about him was said to bring bad luck, Grantaire couldn’t help but smile deeply at seeing him. He’d been hearing him for months and at last the mysterious voice that had followed him since he’d arrived had a face.
Well. Half of one, anyway. And it was beautiful, like something Grantaire could have drawn in one of his numerous sketchbooks when he still had the time and wasn’t desperately trying to keep his voice from cracking during rehearsals. It was the face of a young god, golden locks cascading around his shoulders, one visible blue eye and a mouth made for
(kissing)
(biting)
whispering.
And at last the Phantom spoke.
– Come with me
That voice was far from honey and milk. It was raspy and hesitant, and Grantaire found it so very...attractive. Yes, damn it, he was
(obsessed)
(haunted)
fascinated by the man behind the mask, the man who lived deep in darkness, somewhere where the light never touched, where everything was silence.
The mirror was open, the figure was holding out his hand, and Grantaire finally found his legs and moved – the Phantom’s gloved hand was cold but solid, proof that it wasn’t a dream or an actual ghost, and together they started to walk in silence.
It was cold down there. The corridors under the opera always were, and the little opera rats sometimes dared each-other to take a few steps into the dim underworld. Grantaire and his friends had done the same before Madame Giry had found them and punished them accordingly. They’d only ever whispered about it afterwards and soon they’d stopped, the work and recitals and weight of the world becoming all-consuming.
Grantaire never stopped thinking about the underground world and of the mysteries he’d find down there. And then the voice had come to him. Waking him up at night, slipping into his dreams. Grantaire had almost thought he was going insane – after all, what sort of sane person has conversations with a disembodied voice who lives in walls and behind mirrors? And the voice had coaxed him into coming out of his shell, had shown him how to sing, had been patient, had even flattered – everything Grantaire had only dreamt of hearing. And now...now he was hand in hand with the Phantom himself, being led down those secret tunnels.
There was so much he wanted to say, but all he could do was look around him, enthralled by what he saw – candles lighting the way, hidden in small crevices all the way down the stairs that went down. It was impressive, and somewhat theatrical, but it was only natural. And still the Phantom walked down the stairs, not letting go of Grantaire’s hand. In silence.
Damn.
This was actually getting uncomfortable, so Grantaire did the only thing he really knew how to : he started to talk.
– I’ve always wondered what was underneath the opera. Did you know that every year the new kids coming here try to visit?
– Yes.
– And did you know that they call you the Phantom of the Opera?
– Yes. I’m aware of that.
As usual, Grantaire couldn’t help the tiny mocking tone in his voice – it was part of who he was, he couldn’t change that like he couldn’t change the colour of his eyes or one of the numerous things that made his father hate him.
– I once thought I would name you Apollo, god of music, beauty and song, but he doesn’t shy away from the light of the sun. What should I name you? Astraeus? Nyx? Araphel, even? But they aren’t the same. Night and music rarely go together, do they?
The Phantom hesitated and Grantaire put his hand up, in a gesture of appeasement.
– I’m sorry, sometimes I let my tongue run away with my brain. What’s your name, if you’ll tell me?
– Enjolras. My name is Enjolras.
– It’s nice to finally put a name to a face, Enjolras. I’m Grantaire. Well, R to my friends.
– How should I call you then?
– Are you my friend?
– We shall wait and see.
The steps became slippery at times and Grantaire held the Phantom – Enjolras’ hand tighter as they walked down. How far down were they? How more to go? There were still so many candles, some lanterns, and the mind boggled as to all the theatrics. Had Enjolras lit them all just for him? Did he light them every day and every night? How many candles did he actually have?
But before he could start to ask questions out loud, there was a turn in the stairs and he actually gasped in surprise. There was always talk of the opera house hiding secrets, things that had been built along with the building, things that had been lost or simply hidden away, but Grantaire had hardly believed it – until now. He was looking at a dark, dark lake, candles reflecting like a multitude of stars on its surface, and a boat waiting in front of them, swaying gently in the water’s wake. Enjolras made his way towards it, his cloak billowing behind him, and held out a hand, still in silence. Grantaire understood the message, but still he hesitated. It was only water but for someone who couldn’t swim, it was the unknown.
– Enjolras…?
– Come with me. I have many things to show you.
– Can I trust you? Am I dreaming?
– Come with me.
– You have a wonderful way of not answering questions… I guess it’s too late now to turn back, isn’t it?
Once again, Grantaire took Enjolras by the hand and let himself be helped into the boat, wincing at the way it rocked slightly. Falling into the murky waters underneath was always at the front of his mind. Would he sink straight down? Would Enjolras come to save him? But the hand in his was strong and sure, and in no time they were both sitting in the boat, and Grantaire was watching Enjolras row.
Yes, the feared Phantom of the Opera was rowing a boat, and Grantaire was mentally berating himself for not having a sketchbook with him at this moment. No-one would believe him anyway, who would? So instead he simply let his fingers trail in the water, studying Enjolras’ face – the other man didn’t seem to be looking at him at all, too concentrated on his rowing. There were so many questions running around Grantaire’s mind, but he decided to simply blank them out for the moment and enjoy the quiet. The opera was so very noisy sometimes, and Paris was never silent, not even in the small hours of the morning – here the only sound was the water and the wind and the slow groaning of the oars. Grantaire wanted to speak, he always spoke. But this time nothing seemed right and he didn’t want to play the fool in front of Enjolras.
Dammit.
It was getting colder now, they were deep underground – the river was probably a forgotten tributary of the Seine that ended up losing itself in the bowels of the earth. There were still candles flickering around them on the cavern walls, and this time, Grantaire couldn’t refrain.
– Do you really light those every single day? And where did you get so many?
– I only light the ones I need. And I find them discarded all over, as if a half-consumed candle was worthless. So much waste.
– I feel an undercurrent of righteous anger…
– As if you didn’t know.
– I know. But really, did you really find all these candles in the opera house? So you really do roam the corridors at night, like they say you do. How come I’ve never seen you?
– So many questions.
– Well, you’ve been watching me for weeks now, you should know…
– I do. Watch your step.
The boat jerked slightly as it came to dock, and Enjolras walked out, his hair gleaming in the candlelight. Grantaire followed, trying not to wince too loud at the way the wood cracked as he walked, and finally he was back on solid ground, taking in these new surroundings.
And it dawned on him at last that the object he was looking at without knowing what it was – the object Enjolras was walking towards – was an actual pipe organ. In the underbelly of Paris, in the middle of an actual lake.
Finally, slowly, it started to feel too much. He held out a hand, trying to hold onto anything – something – as everything began to swim and swirl in front of his eyes. And then nothing.
*
It was warm. Warm and dark. He knew this place, it was familiar and he knew that if he opened his eyes, he’d see the wooden walls and the small window of his bedroom. But he didn’t want to be there, his father would be there and if there was one person who would never speak a kind word or spare a gentle glance, it would be him. But there were noises, the sounds of footsteps, a voice…
No. Please no, not again. His father was coming upstairs, his father was going to open the door and demand an explanation and as the last time, no matter what Grantaire would say would have the slightest importance, and then –
Grantaire woke up with a tiny moan, feeling his eyes wild and darting about. It took him a while to remember where he was, and it was only once he’d registered the candles and the smell of wet stone that he relaxed just a bit. He was in the cave, the cave under the opera house, with the mysterious and beautiful phantom. He was lying on a comfortable bed with a cloak thrown over him, obviously it belonged to Enjolras and he had to refrain from wrapping himself into it. He was smitten, obviously, but no matter what, he wasn’t disrespectful. At least one thing in his favour.
He didn’t need to look long for Enjolras, as the man was sitting at the pipe organ, lost in writing and hidden behind the sharp white of the mask.
Leaving the dregs of the
(nightmare)
(memory)
(terror)
dream disappear behind him, Grantaire got up and slowly walked towards where the other man was deep in concentration. Yes, he wasn’t disrespectful but he was curious, and nothing right now could incite more curiosity than the alabaster-white mask. It was just there, tantalising and fascinating. Enjolras hadn’t even heard him come closer, so concentrated on his writing, and Grantaire was helpless against the urge to reach out and touch him. He knew he was in the wrong and that it was more than hypocritical after having thrown himself flowers a few thoughts before, but damn...damn he needed to see Enjolras’ face. Slowly, his fingers reached out...they brushed the cold mask...and ripped it off without a second’s hesitation. Grantaire’s heart was beating wildly but he didn’t expect Enjolras to reel about and look at him with something close to hatred, pushing him away.
– Why! Why did you do that!
– I’m...I’m sorry…
– I wanted to trust you! I wanted you to not want to look! Why did you look?!
– I was curious…! I’m sorry… Don’t shout at me, I’m sorry…
His heart was beating wildly but for completely different reasons now. He was kneeling down, hands above his head, already feeling the blow that would follow...but nothing did. Nothing came, nothing except Enjolras’ ragged breathing trying to calm down.
– Are you satisfied now?
– ...I’m sorry… I really…
– Don’t you even want to look at me any more? You were so curious after all. And now you don’t even do anything about it?
Grantaire couldn’t ignore the ice in Enjolras’ words, the ice forming on every single syllable. The cold anger radiating from him was something terrible and terrifying, like the roar of the unchained sea. His eyes were fixed onto the ground, just where the river lapped gently at the edge of the island; he didn’t dare move, not when Enjolras was still so angry.
He’d messed up so badly, and the worse thing was that he’d known he would. He always messed things up… Always, ever since his childhood. How else would anyone explain the reason his father hated him so much? He’d tried, but his father had never forgiven him for not being who he was supposed to be, for not spending hours in front of his books, for not becoming a doctor or a lawyer, but running away to join the murky night-time world of theatre. Grantaire would never make his family proud, he would never elevate his family’s name, he’d just fade into darkness underneath the opera house. Maybe Enjolras would leave him to find his way back all by himself, and he’d wander and get lost and never find his way back to the light, if ever the light wanted him in the first place…
His thoughts were growing sombre until he noticed that Enjolras was kneeling in front of him, holding out his hand.
– Grantaire. Look at me.
– I’m sorry…
– I know. Look at me.
At last Grantaire raised his head, like a penitent Cyparissus towards the shadowed sun – and what he saw took his breath away. The marble skin had given way to shrivelled leather, angry shades of red and brown marring the entire side of the other man’s face. Both eyes were the blue of a cornflower, but while one of them was clear, the other was slightly veiled with pain and white. It was a face that could have haunted his nightmares – all he would do was reach out, but Enjolras pushed his hand away, almost gently.
– So do you still want to call me Apollo?
His voice was strained – from anger perhaps – but to Grantaire, the feared Phantom was at this moment a vulnerable and lonely person, far from any light or human touch. There was not a single breath of air around them, not a sound to alleviate the moment. Just Enjolras kneeling, a hand in the wispy white hair that had replaced the blonde locks near the tortured skin. He wasn’t threatening, he wasn’t terrifying, he was just...a lost and lonely man. And Grantaire couldn’t ignore that, he just couldn’t…
– Oh Enj… What kind of life have you known…?
Enjolras didn’t answer and Grantaire didn’t expect one. He simply picked up the mask from the floor and held it gently out – the moment was over, he could feel the atmosphere had changed. He’d definitely made a mess of the whole thing with his stupid curiosity. Still he held the mask out, imagining he’d get another verbal lashing, but instead Enjolras simply took it and put it back on his face in silence. No words, nothing, until he nodded.
– We should go back. I’ve nothing else for you now.
*
Grantaire sat in his room staring at the walls. They’d been silent for days and even when he’d spent his nights awake, no more whispering came from them. There was nothing, like Enjolras had never even existed to begin with. He even began to believe that he’d imagined everything : the mirror, the voices, the cavern, the feel of the mask under his fingers… Damn, maybe he’d even imagined Enjolras himself.
It would make sense, after all. No-one else had stories about the Phantom speaking to them in their dreams, so maybe he was just making it up in his mind. Maybe he wanted to be special so much that he was simply going mad, but he didn’t want to believe that he’d just hallucinated the whole thing. And even – even – if he had, would he really have imagined such a destroyed beauty? Would his mind have created someone as beautiful as Enjolras only to show him to be scarred and scared, before chasing him away?
(Of course it would have but that was a conversation he still wasn’t too very interested in having for another couple of hundred years)
There was nothing he could really do. He’d tried to open the mirror, tried to find a mechanism, even smashed the glass but all he’d got for his troubles were slashed hands and blood to clean off the floor. And there was nothing behind it, nothing at all, just the stone walls of the opera house. So obviously it had all been a dream and the stiffness in his legs was only due to sleepwalking, but that didn’t satisfy him at all. It only made him sadder.
So he began to draw again. He wasn’t sleeping and he didn’t want to just stare dumbly at the ceiling, so he found his old sketchbooks in the chest where they’d been kept since he’d arrived. And he filled pages and pages and pages of them. He’d not drawn for years, the pictures was wonky and childlike but things had a way of coming back. He was almost forgetting his voice classes and his dance recitals, exhausted after spending almost all his nights wide awake and drawing.
Until he saw Enjolras again.
The younger students were staying late, watching their elders rehearse for the production of Verdi’s Sicilian Vespers. They were supposed to take notes, studying every single move and every sung note. It had been very simply put that they would be passing an exam at the end of the term and all those lacking would be sent home.
Grantaire wasn’t really paying attention, he was only going through the motions. It had been nearly a month since his encounter in the underground and to be entirely honest, his mind was wandering more than anything. He knew that this exam was important, pivotal even, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care. He was going insane, anyway. What use was staying at the opera house?
He thought he’d dreamt it again, that vague flash of white. He wanted to see it so much that his mind was conjuring it up for him – and yet. Lodge 5 was the haunted lodge, the forbidden lodge, the balcony where no-one dared to step in case they’d come face to face with the mysterious phantom. No-one had ever really seen anyone in lodge 5, it was another story passed down through the years, and yet Grantaire could see someone sitting there, watching them. Someone all in black with a half-moon white mask.
Was it pride? Was it shame? Was it anger? He certainly didn’t know himself and didn’t move from where he was, eyes resolutely fixed on the play in front of him. He
(wouldn’t)
(couldn’t)
(wanted)
didn’t want to go to Enjolras. Not now. Not after what had happened. He was firmly, resolutely...and completely stupidly certain that he wouldn’t do anything, that the white mask had no hold whatsoever on him.
The rehearsal was over, the students were let out with the usual instructions and warnings about the end-of-term exam. As soon as they were able, all the younger ones streamed out, ready to catch up on some sleep, or train. And Grantaire went in a totally different direction – straight towards lodge 5. He walked straight to the back door, opened it – and found no-one. There was absolutely no-one and he just had to laugh. Of course there wouldn’t be, because why would there?
But when he turned around to leave, the Phantom was standing right behind him.
– What the actual hell – !
– You’re being ridiculous, Grantaire. What are you doing?
– I’m sorry, what? You just appear and disappear and I’m supposed to not be a little surprised?
– Why does your singing sound so bad?
– Why does my… Is that all you care about? And why do you even care? I thought we were done, Enjolras. I thought you…
It was so ridiculous… He’d spent so long ignoring and pushing his private desires to the side, he’d just tried to forget the entire thing, and now that Enjolras had come back and was speaking to him again, it was only to talk of singing. And he didn’t even seem to understand.
– You’re not taking your lessons seriously. Why?
– Why? Why?! Maybe because I don’t give a shit any more! I don’t care about singing, I don’t care about the opera, I don’t care about Paris, I don’t care, Enjolras!
- You’re lying.
– Why do you even care?! I swear, why are you even here? Go find another person to whisper to at night!
– I don’t want to.
– Because you’ve already invested so much in me, right?
Grantaire had managed to keep the bitterness out of his voice until that point, but he couldn’t stop the wave of shame wash over him and break through his defences.
– Why are you still interested…? I’m not the most talented singer or dancer here, I’m a messed-up person who ran away from home, and I hardly...hardly deserve your help.
– Grantaire.
– I fucked up, and I know it. Isn’t that why you left? Because I betrayed your trust? Because I wanted so hard to see…?
– It is. Yes. But Grantaire, listen to me. Listen to me. Look at me.
Grantaire had no choice but to look, and his breath caught. Enjolras had removed his mask, standing almost shyly in the dim light of the lodge. He was standing so still that he could have been mistaken for one of the statues that decorated the gilt halls, nothing but his quiet breathing giving away the fact that he wasn’t marble.
And Grantaire found himself weak and wanting.
– Enj…
– Please look at me…
– I am, I am…
He was. He couldn’t take his eyes off Enjolras, and he felt himself move towards him. There were no words for this moment – he didn’t really know what to say, and besides what words could bridge the gap still between them? But he felt the words come back unbidden to his lips.
– Enj...what kind of life have you known?
– Darkness. Loneliness. I never wanted this… I didn’t ask for it… I didn’t ask to have this face. I didn’t ask for people to scream when they see me.
The Phantom’s voice was calm as ever but there was a slight tremor to it, something Grantaire recognized. It was the same sort of tremor he used whenever he had no choice but to speak about his past.
– What happened, Enj? Talk to me.
– She knew. She’s the only one who’s ever tried to help me, but I know I frighten her as well.
– Who?
– Madame Giry. Why do you think she’s always trying to stop students from going down into the corridors? Because if they were curious enough, they’d find me. And then they might tell someone. And I’d end up…
– In an asylum. But they’d call it a hospital. And you’d be sent there in chains, and they’d leave you there to be experimented on, or used as a side-show attraction. And no-one would ever save you. And in any case, you’d never get out of there. Because you’re not like everyone else…
– Sounds like you know about these things.
– I do. Fuck them and everyone who tries to put anyone in one of those. I would never let anyone to that to you, I promise.
– You promise? How can you promise me anything, you don’t even know me...
– But I want to. I want to know you, Enj. And not just as the Phantom of the Opera, the opera ghost who speaks to me in dreams and helps me sing a little better. I want to know the person behind the mask, not just the mask. I want to be your friend, Enj.
Enjolras hadn’t moved an inch and still didn’t move when Grantaire finally took him in his arms. The body next to his was so frail under the cloak… how – what – had he been eating for all these years? No, better not think about that, it was better to just hold him close and feel him almost melt into the hug. And for Grantaire, it felt glorious just to hold someone else.
*
Being different was a curse, Grantaire knew it well, but at least he’d never been forced to live underground for what he was or how people looked at him. Although...he’d been very careful not to let anyone know the main reason he’d run away from home. This might have been a more artistic universe than the bourgeois part of Versailles where he’d grown up, but some things were very much the same – and admitting to everyone here that he dallied with both ladies and gentlemen was pretty much guaranteeing his immediate expulsion, if not worse. It was a thing of shadows and secrecy, and what could be more shadowy and secret than being in the forbidden lodge 5 with the feared opera ghost. And the opera ghost in question was warm and his long blonde hair was tickling his nose.
It was a slippery slope, he knew it. Enjolras was nothing like him, he knew that the chances were abysmal. He had to leave before something irreversible happened, so he broke the hug off awkwardly and smiled.
– I’ll be waiting for your next lessons, alright? I’ve got three weeks to not get kicked out...
– Stay with me. Please?
– What do you want, Enj?
The words were out and nothing would make them fly back in, and Grantaire was very happy for the half-darkness that prevented Enjolras from seeing the hesitation on his face – but was entirely unprepared for the kiss that brushed his lips. And just like that, all the questions and the worry and the concern disappeared like smoke; it had been a long time since Grantaire had kissed anyone – maybe part of him was worried that it was only because of the touch starvation, but Enjolras was still going and Grantaire had no intention of breaking the kiss.
It was like melting into sunlight, like breathing for the first time, and Grantaire just had to run his fingers in the golden locks, feeling them brush against his fingers. And when he reached the badly scarred skin on the side of Enjolras’ face, he didn’t hesitate and kept running his hands over it. He didn’t care, he just wanted to keep kissing Enjolras until he ran out of breath or until the sky turned bright red, whatever happened first. And Enjolras wasn’t pushing him away. Well, actually he was pushing him, but towards the plush seats in the lodge.
It wasn’t the erotic gesture it could have been – they were obviously both battling with too many feeling and thoughts, so they fell more than sat down. Grantaire was still kissing Enjolras like he was the answer to everything and he let out a little breathy noise as Enjolras came to sit on his lap, finally breaking the kiss.
– Grantaire…
Enjolras was looking at him, cheeks red and the mask all but forgotten on the floor of the lodge. His hands were still clasped around Grantaire’s waist, and he was holding him tight. In the half-light, he was almost ethereal – like an actual angel. But he wouldn’t like the comparison, Grantaire thought. No angels had ever watched over him… So he had to amend a little bit and he smiled as he left another small kiss on those lips in front of him.
– My angel of the night…
They didn’t move for a while, wrapped up in each-other’s arms like they’d always belonged there. In fact, Grantaire was certain that Enjolras had fallen asleep and he had no intention of waking him up. Everything was perfect now. Nothing could go wrong, ever. He had someone. Someone had finally chosen him, and he was at least certain it wasn’t just for his dashing good looks since he had none to speak of. And it was probably not because of his immense fortune, since he wouldn’t get to inherit it anyway…
– You’re thinking too loud, R.
– I have some questions, what can I say….?
– Just stay with me for a little bit?
– I’ll stay as long as you want, Enj. Whatever you want. But since you’ve just kissed me...is there anything else you might want right now?
– Do not talk to me as if I were a child.
– It’s just that I don’t want to get the wrong idea. Boys kissing boys isn’t a very safe thing, you know? It’s the sort of thing that can get you into an asylum as well… And that’s even without everything else…
– Like me choosing you for all the wrong reasons?
– Well, you could be…
– Because I live underground and I’ve never seen another human being in my life? Please, don’t be an idiot, R.
– Sorry… I just...I just have something of my own for the first time and I don’t want to fuck it up, you know? I mean, if I need to learn to sing well enough to not be thrown out of the opera, it would be better to not have a lover’s spat…
“Lover’s spat”…was that even the right word? They’d know each-other – or at least a version of each-other for only a few months, how certain could such a relationship be? But then again, he’d heard of people getting married after only a few weeks.
They’d see how they got on, and then everything would be fine.