#phantom x reader

🝮︎︎︎︎︎︎︎ 𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨

It's finally Halloween! The season of trick-and-treats, ghostly frights, pumpking carving, chilly vibes and scare-athon has come once again.

You sat on a chair in your room, boredly waiting the time away as you stared at the window to your side, your eyes darting over to the outside world beyond it, and you would watch, as you saw kids clad in their halloween costumes hop around in merriment while carrying their little pumpkin-carved baskets by their handles, filled with candies and chocolates they have received by kind passersby and from doors they have knocked on.

You hummed to yourself, elbows leaning over the windowsill, as you meet the gentle blow of the wind brush at your skin. It was quiet, not until a certain idea came to your mind—

Why don't you spook your beloved as a little ghost?

A look of mischief gets written all over your face. Your lips curve up to a smirk and your eyes glinted with mirth, as you rose to your feet, scrambled to the cabinets to take out a clean piece of white blanket. Yes, this is perfect. You'll just get it washed later, as you then decide to doodle ghostly eyes and mouth on it with a marker. You marveled at your creation, right before peeking out the door, scanning your surroundings. You'll wait behind your corner, right until your beloved would walk by.

Hearing the gentle creak of the door, followed by the clicking of shoes and footsteps, you sensed someone was walking by, and caught a brief glimpse of your beloved as they had arrived at your shared space, placing their coat onto the racks at the side. Perfect timing.

You slip on the blanket, letting it cover you from head to your legs, showing only your ankles and feet. You were snuggly covered in it, as you waited in lay, until he finally reached your corner and—

"Boo!"

You hopped out from where you hid, imitating a ghostly sound as you blocked his way. Now, how does he react?

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

✿︎☾︎ 𝐊𝐲𝐫𝐲𝐥𝐥 𝐂𝐡𝐮𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐅𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐬

❥︎ Before he even reached your corner, Flins had already heard the light shuffling of sheet and the light giggling that emanated just nearby. Flins is not one to ruin the fun, even if he may have caught you already from afar.

❥︎ When you jumped out with the attempt to adorably spook him, Flins stills in his place, smile curving up his lips, after a small gasp escapes past his lips to humor your cuteness— er, spookiness.

❥︎ "Ah, my love, you've certainly surprised me...with your adorable ghostly form, I must say." He would comment, eyes scanning you from head to toe, taking note of how smaller you appeared in front of him, almost like a little chibi. He could never not be fond of you, in such a state.

❥︎ As you waved your hands, and is just about to pry the blanket up to have a better look at Flins, he nimbly takes the initiative and reached for the soft fabric with his gloved hands, lifts it up as if he were lifting the veil of his bride, locks eyes with you with his smile still present on his lips.

❥︎ He leans down, and as if to match your spooky cuteness, before you could even react, you felt the soft brush of his lips against yours and the world stops for a moment or two. Flins closes his eyes, wraps his arms around your waist as you slowly eased into his affection after your momentary shock at his affectionate reaction as he deepened the kiss— which was sweeter than any candy.

❥︎ When he pulls away, his face still lingered inches from yours, and rather than marvel at a ghost— he marveled at his beloved, whose makeshift costume slowly slipped off of their head. Oh, how the tables have turned. No matter what you do, this beloved Fae of yours will always find a way to outspook your affections ♡

ꨄ︎ "𝑯𝒆𝒉𝒆, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒑𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒏, 𝒎𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕. 𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒔𝒐 𝒖𝒑𝒔𝒆𝒕. 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓... 𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆... 𝑰 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏, 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒚 𝒋𝒖𝒎𝒑𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒂𝒍𝒑𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝑵𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏, 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚 𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝒉𝒎?"

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

✿︎☾︎ 𝑽𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒂

❥︎ At seeing you pop out of nowhere, clad in the makeshift ghost attire, Varka does look slightly taken aback, taking a step back before wrapping his arms around you mid-hop, causing you to land not on your feet, but on the blonde knight instead, who recomposed himself to form a cheerful smile on his face.

❥︎ "Whoa there, darling! Dressing up to match the spooky vibes of the season, are you?" He'd muse, holding you and then up into his arms, cradling you like a marshmallow. Varka had just returned from a mission that he took his knights out with him for, so having you surprise him in such a way eased the weariness in his heart, replaced with warmth.

❥︎ As if feeling you pout beneath the blanket sheet, Varka chuckled aloud, his face of mirth before deciding to spook you in return, but in a form of affection. He presses his face against the fabric, and uses his free hand to trace over your head, and finding your cheek, he props your head to face his direction and he leans forward for a sweet kiss on your lips, right exactly on it, even with the cover of the white sheet separating you both from direct contact.

❥︎ When he pulls back a bit, he clutched you even tighter and effortlessly against his chest, still up in his arms with no hassle, feeling immense affection with a grin on his lips as he could imagine you heating up beneath the cover.

❥︎ "Heh, I can only imagine the sparks of pink covering your cheeks right now, love. Spooked your sweet heart now, didn't I?" He mused aloud, before pressing his scarred cheek up against your still-covered head, nuzzling you like a pillow rather than a ghost.

❥︎ At that, he walks away, back to your shared room, still holding you close, with glee etched in his features. You're up for one cuddly night, you can already tell.

ꨄ︎ "𝑯𝒂𝒉, 𝑰'𝒗𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒅𝒎𝒊𝒕—𝑰'𝒅 𝒕𝒐𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒅𝒓𝒐𝒑 𝒎𝒚 𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒂 𝒄𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝒂 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝑰'𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒚 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒔𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅𝒔. 𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒕𝒉 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒃𝒊𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓, 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

✿︎☾︎ 𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒚

❥︎ Wriothesley is perceptive. But also is the kind to humor the flow of a plan hatched, that which he catches wind of— like your small giggles behind the corner of the room instantly gave the idea of a surprise waiting for him. The Duke remained unmoved however, played along, suppressing the slight smirk that has appeared on his lips. With a click of his boots, he makes his way forward.

❥︎ And when you popped out with that cute little 'boo', Wriothesley raises one eyebrow, now unable to suppress a smile. Now, that's indeed quite the pleasant surprise for the only person capable of pouring buckets of childish cuteness and getting away with it, unscathed.

❥︎ "What do we have here? Playing ghost for Halloween, love?" He remarks, eyeing you up and down, suppressing his urge to let out a chuckle when he thought how you looked like a child in such a state.

❥︎ Reaching out his arms, Wriothesley then pulls you closer and up against him after he wraps his arms around you, letting you feel his warmth even through the cloth.

❥︎ "You know, you can easily be arrested for adorably sneaking up on an unsuspecting person." Wriothesley teases and he feels you pout beneath the cover, and thus, he slowly snuck his way down to the edges of the blanket, pulling it up bit by bit as if he were opening a carefully decorated package.

❥︎ At seeing your flustered face, he lets the blanket slip off of your head, as your eyes locked on to each other, with Wriothesley leaning ever so closely, just inches away from your lips, with a softened expression on his face, and in just a split second, he steals a kiss off your lips— perhaps as a fine to how you spooked him for today.

ꨄ︎ "𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕, 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒗𝒆 𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒚. 𝑵𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔, 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒑 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒃𝒆𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒈 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒆𝒕 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓. 𝑺𝒐, 𝑰 𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆. 𝑵𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏, 𝑰 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆... 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒘𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒎𝒃𝒖𝒔𝒉. 𝑪𝒖𝒅𝒅𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓, 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒐𝒇𝒇."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

✿︎☾︎ 𝐏𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐧

❥︎ Phainon innocently called you out from the door, the moment he got home, in his enthusiastic tone as if he were some dog that had been waiting for his owner's return instead of the other way around. His work took quite awhile to accomplish, and the entire time, he could not think of anything else but to return to your warm embrace for the night.

❥︎ His boots tapped lightly on the floor, as he approached in calm strides, reached your corner, not noticing anything out of the ordinary within the comfort of you two's shared space, that is until— you hopped out of nowhere, arms raised to the front for a 'frightening look' as you led out a cute ghostly shriek.

❥︎ Phainon looked surprised, stumbled slightly before chuckling aloud, raising a hand to the back of his head, scratching it as tints of pink appeared on his cheeks. Well, now that's quite adorable rather than a spooky surprise. It reminded him that it was the Halloween season.

❥︎ "Haha, starlight, I must admit you surprised me there a little bit!" He exclaims, before turning to look back at you, still smiling, his heart fluttering as Phainon watched you marvel at your own victory just beneath the covers. He took one good look at your doodle, finding your jumpscare attempt all the more adorable.

❥︎ "Quite the setup that you have here, love. I suppose, I see this more as a treat rather than a trick." He comments, his eyes gleaming with newfound joy before it was his turn to pick you up in his arms as if you were some cat, draped the blanket off of you and in a slow motion, as the blanket remained afloat midair for several seconds, blurring out the light that seeped through the windows, you saw his blue eyes shimmer with great fondness.

❥︎ He leans in, and you closed your eyes as you relented for a reciprocated treat on the lips in the form of a sweet kiss. A romantic scene that mutually sent palpitations to your heart.

ꨄ︎ "𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘, 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔. 𝑺𝒆𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆, 𝒆𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒔...𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒄𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔. 𝑰𝒕 𝒅𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒆, 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅. 𝑻𝒐𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍, 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒚 𝒅𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔... 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒕 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝑯𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏. 𝑯𝒆𝒉𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆, 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒖𝒑 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒕, 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆? 𝑾𝒉𝒐𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒔, 𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒂𝒅𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓!"

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

✿︎☾︎ 𝐉𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐮𝐚𝐧

❥︎ Afternoons make the General feel the most drowsy. He walked through the courtyards of his home, having snuck himself away from his Secretaries' eyes to return back home for a good rest to take his mind off the piles of work to do on his desk. Jing Yuan walked in graceful motions, feeling the soft breeze of the afternoon air and of the birds who greeted him off the trees with light chirpings of their own.

❥︎ He walked around for a bit, yawning here and there before making his routinely afternoon visit to your shared home, to check on his beloved whom he's always found himself more than eager to be with, all the time while away at work. You're usually at home during this hour. It won't be so bad to reinvigorate his energy just by seeing his Sweetheart on a daily basis, off the mornings and evenings.

❥︎ He walked through the front door, steps inside, and in calm strides, scanned his surroundings and that's when he picks up the distant sound of giggles. Jing Yuan's ears perk up with interest at the sound, and he sped up his movements a bit, following the source that led to a corner of a wall.

❥︎ It was dead quiet not until— hop! And there came the adorable ghostly shriek that came out of the ghost-dressed figure in front of him. Jing Yuan paused, raising his eyebrows at the sight, before his lips curve up to an amused smile and his drowsy eyes soon were relit to light with amusement. Now that just made his afternoon already eventful.

❥︎ "Ah, quite the adorably fearsome ghost we have here. Already expecting me at this hour, I see. You've certainly filled my weary heart with energy, my dear." Jing Yuan comments, face still in amusement, all the while he marveled at the victorious face that albeit covered by a sheet of white, he could imagine the grin and blush plastered over your face. He had known and has been with you for a long time already to be able to memorize your beauty that he found himself admiring, most of the time.

❥︎ Reaching out, Jing Yuan snuck a hand beneath the white sheet, takes your hand and leads you along down the hallways, reached your shared room, carried you up in his arms as if you were some princess, as he then sets you down on the bed, and he follows shortly after, gently drapes off the blanket that was draped over your face, easing it out as if he were draping away the red veil of a bride on a wedding night. Then, he lays both himself and you down, with the same said blanket tucking you both in comfortably for a nice cuddle.

❥︎ Jing Yuan could just get used, indeed, for afternoons like this one. You gave him quite the trick, and in turn, you earned yourself a special treat from the beloved General.

ꨄ︎ "𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒎𝒆, 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆... 𝑯𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏. 𝑨𝒉, 𝑰'𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒇𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒅𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒖𝒎𝒏. 𝑰 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒚, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒅𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒔 𝒖𝒑 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒗𝒆, 𝑺𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕, 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒗𝒖𝒍𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒔. 𝑩𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔, 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒆. 𝑰𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆...𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝑰 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔? 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

✿︎☾︎ 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲

❥︎ Ever since Sunday had boarded the Astral Express, his days are nothing short of eventful. From his days that he's usually only spent in quietness, turned into one of the merry group works. He's not complaining, however. He learned to see the joys that companionship and of venturing out into the universe has to offer.

❥︎ Sunday looked rather relaxed for the moment, sighing in relief as he clutched at his back after a day of work with some of the other Crew members, stepped into his shared living space with yours. He looked rather peaceful, ethereal even. Had you had no cover on, you would've stepped back to simply admire this beautiful angel— that is, your boyfriend.

❥︎ Sunday slowly approached the corner, not noticing anything out of the ordinary. You waited, taking his shadow and footsteps as a clue, and right exactly on time— you bounced out from where you hid, shrieked an adorable ghostly sound which caused for the Halovian to actually gasp aloud, taken aback with his small wings stiffening in place at the sight of the little ghost that have come to surprise him.

❥︎ Sunday slowly composes himself, his wings covering the lower half of his face in a bashful manner, covering up his flustered cheeks all the while his heart beat in tandem of your strings of giggles at his reaction, even though you could not see his current expression, you can imagine it well in your mind.

❥︎ "A-Ah, dearest... You've... certainly caught me off-guard. I must say, you did a good job scaring me." Sunday comments softly upon recomposing himself as his small wings fluttered back at the sides, straightened himself up before marveling at your adorable ghostly figure. He smiled even at focusing on the doodle of an attempt for a ghostly face.

❥︎ When you had started taking the blanket off of your face, Sunday reached his own hands out, interrupted your movements and turned to take it off himself, with his softened look in full view before he then carefully draped it over your shoulders, as if to keep you warm from your own chills that you have emanated before he leans down, his free hand clutching at his heart, to give you a soft kiss on the forehead.

ꨄ︎ "𝑨𝒉, 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝑰𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏. 𝑺𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍, 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏'𝒕 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒊𝒕, 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉, 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒂...𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒆, 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆. 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒖𝒑 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒑𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏, 𝒔𝒐... 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒚 𝒂𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒇𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉-𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒏𝒅?"

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

✿︎☾︎ 𝐋𝐨𝐠𝐨𝐬

❥︎ The piles of work that he has finished for the day, has left Logos feeling rather weary in the heart. Such are the duties that he must face as an Elite Operator, for Rhodes Island. There were his responsibilities too, as the Banshee Prince/Lord, that still finds a way to take up bits of his time in his own desk here.

❥︎ Logos walked by the merry hops of Operators and staffs alike, and of the children who giggled down the hallways, carrying baskets of treats— that even Logos himself played a part into filling, when they have come to ask for some treats. His heart feels moved alone at the sight of such merry gathering during this season. Still, his soul yearned for the comfort of his other half— you.

❥︎ He passed along the hallways that led to the dormitories and over to his shared space with his lover. You. He comes in, comfortably removes his Rhodes Island coat as the auras of the incantations emanated from it as the owner parts with it momentarily, steps inside, hands raised to remove his gloves before heading in further. He hears the light ruffling of fabric, just near where he is, causing his ears to perk up at the sound.

❥︎ He turns the corner, careful in his steps and there— he steps aback, blinking, surprised as he sees your ghostly figure hop out from where you hid and mustered a 'boo', in imitation of a howling ghost, in front of the young Banshee Lord. He was rendered speechless for a moment or two, until his lips curve to a smile, and he tilts his head away charmingly, able to blind someone with light should they stare at his ethereal expression at the moment, thanks to his beloved who did little as to spook him for fun but sent great palpitations his way in the name of love.

❥︎ "Dearest, you've certainly...gave me quite the fright, I must admit." Logos softly commented, his eyes trailing over your figure all the while you marveled at your own victory with how your hands swayed in merry movements. A sight that he took delight in watching. You always could get a reaction out of him, which he did not mind one bit. He feels alive whenever he basks in your warm presence.

❥︎ To match your playfulness however, Logos does recover himself, stepped closer with a click on the floor, reached his hands out in a careful manner, moved the blanket not to remove it but surprised you when he instead lifted it up and draped it over himself— stuffing him inside the covers with you, covering both of your figures regardless of height, and the next thing you felt, in a slow blurring motion was his lips on yours.

ꨄ︎ "𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒂 𝒍𝒚𝒓𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒊𝒎𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎 𝒐𝒇 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔, 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆. 𝑯𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝑯𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏, 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒎𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕. 𝑵𝒐𝒘, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏... 𝑰 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕. 𝑺𝒐... 𝑻𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒐𝒓 𝑻𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕?"

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

✿︎☾︎ 𝐏𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐦 (𝐀𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫)/ 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚

❥︎ Lucian is not usually one to entertain the normal motions of human life. For most of his life in the past, he had mostly been content to stay within the limelights of the shadows, and be part of the swallowing tides of darkness. But after his transition into a new person, as Tragodia, he has come to accept integration within society in slow but fulfilling steps. And that includes, acknowledging your love to its entirety, with little doubt nor reservation about whether he truly is deserving to be the object of your affections.

❥︎ Lucian still lingers betwixt the darkness he once thought himself to be a puzzle piece of, and of the newfound light in his days in the form of acceptance and interactions aboard the Rhodes Island Landship. He remained reluctant, yet, he does not take another step back. He picked up this new mantle to be the successor to the Tragodia name, with the promise of freedom and spring— a large contradiction to the life that he once possessed, when he was still within the confines of the Crimson Troupe. He is in the process of learning how to love— but he is already showing all that he's learned, in the days you remained by his side.

❥︎ Lucian had just returned from an off-R.I duty, his coat trailing from behind him, only to find himself first greeted by the sights of merry children, hopping around, baskets in hand, filled with treats and of the Operators and staff around that greeted one another the dawn of the spooky holiday spirit. It was one of those days again, he thought to himself. Halloween. A season for myths and for the departed.

❥︎ He made his way into his shared space with you, his beloved. During his absence, Lucian did make sure to exchange letters here and there with you to ensure that you stay updated with what goes on with his life so far, away from you. He gently opens the door, steps inside with care as Miss Christine then hops off his shoulder, her twin-tails swishing side by side, purring as she wanders off to who knows where. Whereas, he, with great care, took off his cloak for a more comfortable pacing in mobility, and stepped in, letting the warm lights in the room envelop his figure. He no longer feels so blinded to the spotlights, compared to before, though, with all that has happened in his life— his heart did turn weary but comparably relaxed unlike before.

❥︎ That is, until, he was about to turn a corner, only to lean backwards in surprise when you hopped up, clad only in that white blanket sheet, with an adorable doodle of a ghostly face with your hands posed for a frightening stance. Lucian's eyes were wide, in surprise, that all strings of previous thought had dissipated into nothingness at the sight of you. Yes, who else would it be, but you? He can already tell. Within the confines of his mind that are haunted by illusions of his past— you alone remained with a form of clarity. He looked speechless, stunned even that he is still registering a response within his mind.

❥︎ Then, his lips slowly curves up into a small smile. Your jumpscare certainly did relit the flames of his mind and heart, to radiate positive recollections rather than of negativity. "My starlight... You certainly do have the airs of the Halloween season in you. I must say... You make a fine actor for a ghost. Even you surprised me." He tells you, making comments as if he were a scripwriter who offered encouraging remarks about your masterpiece, to which you responded with quite the prideful pose that caused his smile to grow larger. He's completely changed.

❥︎ Hearing you giggle were like melodies to his ears, one he'd consider even finer than his own singing voice. Lucian recovers, steps closer towards you, with his spirits lifted, thanks to your spooky welcome, he reaches for the edges of your white cloak, pulls it up carefully, and drapes it around your shoulders instead with a tie to the front securing it as a makeshift coat. Then, to your surprise, Lucian, out of nowhere, responds in kind to your spooky act with a romantic one of his own. He positions both yours and his body in the posture for a dance of waltz, held your hands, and you're instantly whisked away to a small magical dance, as his response to your welcome. Lucian has flipped the script. A well disguised trick in the form of a treat. Now that he has found his will of change and life— he will show you, the depths of his feelings, for you.

ꨄ︎ "𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞, 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞. 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐰𝐨. 𝐈𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐬. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐞𝐭... 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐮 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐤, 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐭-𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐈𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲, 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞... 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮...𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝'𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞. 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮... 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐭𝐞- 𝐧𝐨, 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐢𝐟𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐀𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

✿︎☾︎ 𝐊𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐨̄ 𝐈𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐢

❥︎ Life in Chaldea, for Kondo, is largely a different experience compared to his past life. He had once lived through an era of war and bloodshed, with little room for the mundane joys in life that only the commonfolk can afford as a form of luxury. The Commander is no cold person, he is too warm, even, for the old world where only the fittest may survive. When he had met his end, he passed with lingering regrets and of the thought that even if he may have died, bearing still the dignity of the Commander of the Shinsengumi, he thought to have found himself unworthy of any form of love for the failures that he has committed in his life. But it's with you, and with the reunion of himself and his comrades that Kondo found himself more willing to accept life once again, with honor restored and willingness to accept the turns of affection that you and everyone else would give him.

❥︎ Kondo amused himself with the traditions of the Halloween season, with the sights of the child servants running around to all they'd encounter, asking for a trick or treat. He had great curiosity for the new world, and so delighted himself with observations, gifting of a candy or two to the kids who came by and even would surprise some of his unsuspecting comrades like Heisuke with a treat or two, in the form of a candy. It's not like Heisuke can turn him away with that innocent smile on Kondo's face, anyways.

❥︎ Late into the evening, after much wandering around amongst his fellow servants in the spirits of the spooky holiday, Kondō had not seen you the entire day due to your duties out, though he hoped that he'd be seeing you once he arrives back into his shared room with yours. You had him move in, after months of relationship with him, enough to be considered as close to let him stay as your beloved companion in the same living space.

❥︎ "Master, are you inside?" Kondo spoke aloud in a gentle tone, his long hair trailing behind him, as he announced his arrival with question of your whereabouts. He steps inside, with careful strides. The same smile remained on his face, as he stepped closer to the corner from where you were hidden.

❥︎ Little by Little, when you felt his presence draw closer, reaching the corner, you jumped out, with a cute imitation of a ghostly shriek which did make Kondo stumble backwards slightly with a low gasp, faltering in his steps momentarily before recovering himself in a split second as per his training, and took a better look at your figure. He blinked, until a chuckle slipped past his lips in great amusement.

❥︎ "Master— or should I refer to you now... My dearest, you certainly do look adorable in your gab. Ah, but of course, give yourself credit for successfully making me falter in my steps." Kondo remarks, a smile plastered over his lips, watching as you make your victory pose. He recalled back to another servant whom he had conversed with, earlier, on the topic of Halloween out of Kondo's great curiosity into learning about the present holiday spirits. You always manage to find a way to reach his heart with such gleeful motions. There's the concept of trick or treat, whom he found the most attractive when he had heard of it. Perhaps, it won't be so bad to apply what he's learned now.

❥︎ Hearing you giggle beneath that cover of yours prompted the Shinsengumi Commander to lean down, nimbly move his hands over to the fabric, tugged it upwards and an easeful motion, he lets it flutter upwards, towering above the two of you like a thin sheet of cloud. As your eyes dart upwards, observing the cloud, Kondo leans in as if he were a caretaker of this particular sunflower right in front of him, pulled in by the beams of sunshine, in a blurry slow-mode motion, he leans in and gives you a kiss on the lips, his hand cupping your cheeks as if nuzzling at the soft petals of a flower all the while the white blanket fluttered towards the side, falling with grace with a thud, but not before momentarily giving the imagery of two lovers sharing a kiss behind a book in a library of memories.

ꨄ︎ "𝑴𝒚 𝑳𝒐𝒓𝒅— 𝑵𝒐, 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆'𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒛𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝑺𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅. 𝑩𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏, 𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏. 𝑼𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍, 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆, 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝑪𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒔, 𝒉𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒎 𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔... 𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒏 𝑯𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐, 𝒃𝒖𝒕... 𝑯𝒆𝒉𝒆, 𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒔𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔𝒎𝒂𝒏, 𝑰 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒏𝒊𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔. 𝑰 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒐 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎...𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒖𝒇𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒌? 𝑰 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆... 𝑰 𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒚."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Beneath a perfectly bruised sky of storm clouds, loomed the Destler château in all it’s glory. The very same house the people of town whispered about—of the house that had long outlived its master. Even on its sunny days did it hold grim and gloom, that during the sunrise it still only looked old and grey like a dark cathedral you would read in those strange books.

The most astonishing thing about it though was the well kept gardens surrounding it in it’s large expanse of acres. The grass a lush green, shimmering with the morning dew. And the magnificent fragrance of the most red roses you would ever behold in the rose gardens that surrounded a deep darkened maze.

As the sun did attempt to rise through the grey clouds with its rays peeking through in thin strips. The air hung thick with warmth and humidity in the morning summer's kiss. The rose scent clashing with the wet-moss covered stones and the sweet sound of morning birds.

The estate’s manager, butler, servants, and some construction workers’ boots crunched against the gravel path, their voices a low hum of practicality, while they stood ready to greet the new guest. A luxurious, dark red landau carriage pulled by six, black, friesian horses sighed to a halt amid the gothic splendor before them.

One by one, three gentlemen descended, among them stood your father, a man of weathered hands and resolute eyes, and then his two elder sons of four trailing him like ducklings eager to inherit his legacy.

They were young, barely past boyhood, yet already schooled in the art of construction, their father’s craft etched into their futures. The trio moved with purpose, their breath misting in the chill as they discussed beams and mortar.

Only you remained within the shadowed interior, a young vision of elegance and beauty. The footman, ever dutiful, extended his gloved hand which you placed your fingers upon with grace. The blood-red tulle of your gown unfurled like a wound opening to the morning air, layers of crimson whispering gently against the breeze.

The matching hat sat low, its veil a delicate cage of lace that both concealed and revealed the tremor of curiosity in your eyes. Every eye turned. Every heart, whether they knew it or not, skipped a single, treacherous beat as they beheld you.

Your breath held as you took in the Destlers’ home. It was just as you imagined in all it’s gothic magnificence. The rumors of it being haunting was a little more over exaggerated though, in your opinion but it was the rumor of their being a ghost in the house that piqued your interest.

“Arthur!” The estates manager, Tangu, greeted with an eye smile and shake of hands. “Welcome, welcome! I assume the trip here wasn’t too troubling?”

“Not at all, it was quite pleasant actually. Being able to see the countryside is always refreshing.” Your father says gleefully after they greet one another.

“These are your sons are they?” Tangu asks as your father nods proudly.

Arthur swept his arm in a grand, welcoming arc. “My eldest sons, Rémi and Julian.”

The two young men stepped forward one after the other, offering firm handshakes and polite smiles that carried the easy confidence of youth tempered by good breeding. Only then did Tangu’s gaze drift past them and settle on you. He paused mid-motion, lips parting as though the sight of you had stolen the very words from his tongue.

“And who,” he murmured, voice low with wonder, “is this radiant creature?”

Arthur’s smile widened, pride and amusement flickering in his eyes. “My eldest daughter. She insisted on coming. Claimed nothing could keep her from satisfying that insatiable curiosity of hers.”

Tangu bowed over your laced gloved hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles before straightening. “Then we must not keep her waiting. Your things will be taken to the guest chambers at once.”

As if summoned by the sound of your arrival, the great doors of the château creaked wider. Down the stone steps she came. Madame Destler, the lady of the house, gliding like a feather duster given form.

Black silk clung to her from throat to wrist to hem, the same unrelieved mourning she had worn for sixteen long years, ever since her husband drew his final breath on the very night their son was due to be born.

The world believed the child had perished with her hope, carried away by the cruel weight of her grief. Yet high above the courtyard, behind a latticed window half-hidden by ivy, a pair of eyes watched every movement below. Sharp, alive, and burning with secrets no one else had any idea of.

Mr. Destler, was a mason of unparalleled renown in France. And your father had known Mr. and Mrs. Destler well, for years really, until the master of the house fell to his untimely death, and now, at the urgent summons of Mrs. Destler, he had come to honor an old debt for an old friend.

The widow’s letters spoke of an estate plagued by disrepair. It’s sagging rafters, leaking roofs, and walls that seemed to groan under the weight of their own history from years of neglect. As a favor to a friend long gone, he had agreed to oversee the renovations, bringing his sons, and you, along for the journey.

Arthur removed his top hat and inclined his head in a courtly bow. “Madame Destler. The years have been kinder to you than to any of us. You are as striking as ever.”

Madame Destler’s lips barely curved. “You always did flatter, Arthur,” she replied, her voice as cool and flat as the marble beneath their feet. “I trust your rooms will suit you. And thank you, truly, for making the journey. My husband held you in the highest regard. He would have been . . . grateful.”

Arthur’s smile did not falter; it never did as he was a gentle man. With a soft nod he accepted the welcome, and the family stepped across the threshold.

While the men drifted ahead, their voices low with talk of contracts and legacies, you lingered at the rear, letting the others pass. The entrance hall unfolded around you like a cathedral built for mourning rather than prayer. Your reflection stared up from the polished marble, clear enough to catch the uncertain flutter in your own eyes

Along the walls, stone angels stood in silent vigil, each cradling a bronze bowl where flames trembled like captive stars. Heavy drapes of midnight velvet framed tall windows, swallowing the dark areas in bruised gold.

Everything was grey and gilt, severe and perfect. The carvings on every pillar, every arch, looked sharp enough to cut longing itself into shape. Gothic, yes, but not cold; it was the kind of beauty that made the heart ache in recognition, as though the house had been waiting sixteen years for someone to walk through it and finally feel its loneliness.

You drew a slow breath, tasting wax and old roses, and realized, too late, that you were already in love with the place. With its details. With whatever story had carved it so exquisitely. And somewhere high above, behind a lattice of stone and silence, a gaze you could not see lingered on you just as helplessly. Following you.

The family gallery was a cavern of white marble and colder silences. Statues of long-dead Destlers stared down from their pedestals, each face carved with the same proud, strong jaw and serious expressions.

Madame Destler’s voice drifted on, a monotone litany about her husband’s bust, how the sculptor had caught the exact tilt of his head, the precise depth of his gaze, until the words blurred into a polite hum that begged for a yawn. You lifted a gloved hand to your lips, facing a way from view and let your attention wander.

Tucked behind a fluted column, half-forgotten, stood a smaller bust. An unnamed young man. The resemblance to the late Monsieur Destler was unmistakable, the same strong brow, the same wave in the hair, though softer, less severe.

Yet where the elder’s eyes had been carved to command, these looked out with a sorrow so quiet it seemed almost shy and adoring. You stepped closer without meaning to, drawn by the faint, downturned curve of the marble mouth.

Minutes slipped away. When you finally blinked back to yourself, the others had moved on; their footsteps echoed faintly from the corridor beyond. For one heartbeat your pulse stuttered, alone, in this mausoleum of stone strangers, then settled again. Curiosity, not fear, had always been your truest companion.

You reached out, the soft lace of your glove whispering against cold marble and brushed the statue’s cheek as though it might flinch. It did not, of course. With a small, secret smile you turned and followed the others.

The next room stole the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. A library, no, a cathedral of books. Shelves soared three storeys high, ladders poised like sentinels along brass rails. The air was thick with the scent of aged paper and beeswax, a fragrance so perfectly itself that you closed your eyes for a moment just to breathe it in.

When you opened them again, you saw the ceiling in a fresco of night sky, indigo and star-drunk, with comets streaking across plaster heavens that moved with your wild imagination. Your fingers trailed along the spines, calfskin, morocco, vellum, titles in languages you only half-recognized. Delight rose in you like champagne.

You forgot the tour, almost forgetting the marble boy with the sad eyes, and forgot everything else but the delicious hush of turning pages no one had touched in years. You did not hear the soft creak of the balcony door above. Did not see the figure who stepped out from behind the gilded railing, half-hidden by shadows and the carved balustrade.

He leaned forward just enough for the gaslight to catch in his eyes, the very same eyes you had caressed in marble moments ago, now alive, now fixed on you with an intensity that made the vast room feel suddenly, breathlessly small. He watched you the way a drowning man watches the first glimpse of shore. In wonder, terror, and something fiercer threaded together.

You remained blissfully unaware, smiling at a volume of Baudelaire you had plucked from the shelf, while above you the lost son of the house stood trembling, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid the dream would end if he so much as blinked. A sharp creak of floorboard shattered the hush. Up on the balcony the boy flinched, heart slamming against his ribs as Julian’s voice rang out behind you.

“Is it everything you dreamed of, sweet sister?” Julian teased, stepping from behind with that lopsided grin he wore whenever he expected a scream.

You didn’t even startle. Not a gasp, not a flinch. You simply turned, one brow arched in gentle mockery. “Really, Julian. You’ve tried that since we were children. When will you accept defeat?”

The boy above leaned forward, gripping the balustrade until the carved wood bit into his palms. Your voice drifted up like bells heard across water, so clear, amused, impossibly kind. It wrapped around him and squeezed.

Julian exhaled a laugh he couldn’t quite suppress. “You’re impossible. Nothing frightens you. You’re unnatural.”

“Or I’ve simply grown immune to six siblings who think ‘boo’ is high art,” you countered, sliding the Baudelaire back onto its shelf with reverent care.

Julian jerked his head toward the corridor. “Come on, wanderer. Father will notice you’re missing and send a search party. Again.”

You sighed, a soft, theatrical thing in the hidden boys mind, and followed, skirts whispering over the parquet. As you passed beneath the balcony you never once glanced up. Julian never noticed the extra shadow that lingered overhead either, watching until the last flicker of your hem vanished through the doorway.

Later, after endless corridors and a hundred polite murmurs of admiration, you were shown to your chamber. A maid curtseyed, promised hot water, and left you to the vast four-poster that looked as though it had waited centuries for someone to dream in it.

Then came the summons to supper.

The dining room swallowed sound the way any château swallows echoes. A table long enough for a royal court gleamed beneath a chandelier dripping with crystal and candlelight.

Silver caught firelight and threw it back in a thousand trembling shards. Fresh damask cloths, starched to knife-edged perfection, glowed like moonlight on snow. Even the air seemed polished in its warmth with beeswax and rosemary, bright with the scent of roasted chestnuts.

Night pressed against the tall windows, but inside it might as well have been noon in paradise. Golden light poured from every sconce, every candelabrum, pooling across the table until the whole room shimmered like a mirage.

You took your seat next to Julian, smoothing your napkin across your lap, unaware that at the far end of the table an extra place had been set, then quietly, discreetly removed only moments before the family entered. Unaware that somewhere beyond the velvet drapes, a heartbeat that had no business still beating thundered in time with yours.

The courses arrived in slow, stately procession. Consommé trembling in pristine porcelain cups, pheasant glazed with Armagnac, tiny sorbets served in silver shells to cleanse the palate. Conversation circled the same well-worn paths of estimates for the east-wing roof, the cost of re-gilding the morning parlor, whether the late Monsieur Destler would have approved of damask or brocade for the new draperies.

Madame Destler spoke of her husband’s tastes as though he had merely stepped out for a cigar and might return at any moment to correct the color of the wallpaper. You ate quietly, letting the talk wash over you like distant rain. Julian, seated to your left, could never resist mischief. An elbow found your ribs, once, twice, accompanied by a whispered.

“Still alive over there, statue girl?”

You answered the third nudge with the sharp heel of your slipper against his instep. He grunted, loud enough to slice through the murmur of adult voices. Every head turned.

Julian recovered with the speed of long practice. “Pardon,” he said, flashing his most charming smile. “I was only admiring the carving around the hearth. Mr. Destler truly had an eye for genius.”

Madame Destler’s severe mouth softened by a fraction. “He did,” she began.

And off she went again how he had personally chosen the marble, how the stonemason had wept when the work was unveiled. The table settled back into the familiar rhythm of her reminiscence.

Across from you, Rémi caught your eye. One eyebrow ascended in majestic disapproval, a silent bombastic reprimand that required no words. You pressed your lips together to trap the laugh threatening to escape; Julian did the same beside you, shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. For a moment the three of you were children again, allied against the endless solemnity of grown-ups.

Julian nudged once more in a promise that later he would limp theatrically and blame you for the bruise. While at the head of the table, Madame Destler’s voice rose and fell like a requiem. And yet no one noticed the faint draft that stirred the candles, nor the shadow that hesitated just beyond the doorway. Tall, motionless, drinking in the sight of laughter he had never been allowed to join.

Though, no one except you, perhaps, who felt the strangest prickling at the nape of your neck, as though someone had brushed an invisible finger along your skin. You would turn in that direction only to find no one every time.

The maids had only just drawn the curtains and turned down the counterpane when they left you alone. The room was quiet except for the low pop of the fire and the soft ticking of a distant clock. You sat at the little rosewood vanity, loosening the last pins from your hair, letting it fall heavily down.

That was when you saw it.

There, on the corner of the vanity, lay the volume of Baudelaire you had held in the library hours earlier. The same cracked green leather, the same faint gold lettering along the spine. It had not been there when you entered the room; you were certain of it.

Your breath caught. A small crease formed between your brows as you reached for it, fingertips brushing the cover as though it might vanish. A gift? A kindness from a thoughtful servant who had noticed your longing glance? The explanation settled over you like a warm shawl, and the tension eased from your shoulders. You smiled.

Carrying the book to the vast bed, you slipped between linen sheets that smelled of lavender and wood. Your white nightgown spread around you in delicate folds, moonlight spilling through the gap in the drapes to silver the pages. You opened the book at random, and the words welcomed you like old friends.

Time blurred. The fire burned lower. Your eyelids grew heavy, the lines of verse swimming together until they dissolved into dreams. You never heard a secret door open, though it did just enough for a shadow to slide through.

You never saw the figure pause at the foot of the bed, motionless, drinking in the sight of you asleep with the book still cradled against your heart. Moonlight caught the curve of a cheek that had never known a mother’s kiss, the tremble of a mouth that had forgotten how to speak its own name.

He stood there a long while, afraid to breathe. Then, with infinite care, he reached out and drew the blanket higher over your shoulders, tucking the chill of the night away from your skin. His fingers lingered an inch above your hair, aching to touch, never daring.

At last, he retreated, melting back into the darkness beyond the door. The latch closed without a sound. You slept on, the book rising and falling with your gentle breath, dreaming of sorrowful eyes who watched over you in silence. Never guessing that those same ones had just done exactly that.

Erik shifts the small leather bag between his fingers, the contents lightly clanking together, as his feet habitually skip over a whining step.

Around him, dreaming, the walls hum with the memory of the day’s exploits. Stone and timber stir and sigh, their restless settling at times a noise close to distant laughter, something drip, drip, dripping in tandem with his footsteps. 

He counts each one, one-two-three, one-two-three, like a waltz, something Chopin reverberating vaguely in his mind.

When he had first helped raise these walls, when it had stood gleaming in its newness, even he had half the mind to believe it was alive. Golden foyers and their winding staircases like lungs; the grand auditorium, a great and throbbing heart; and these hidden halls, as if veins. Breathing with the inhales of every prima donna, bending with each piqué of the corps de ballet. 

Rounding the jut of a pillar, he watches the glow of an oil lamp–the lights still not having been modernised; gas favoured for above, not below–spill in trembling rivulets through the cracks in the panelling, shards of warmth shattering the dark passages. His fake nose itches. 

A fanciful notion indeed, though, one that the impressionable ladies of the ballet–as well as the stagehands, box keepers and cloak-room attendants–enjoyed petrifying each other with. Some of the young girls–though, he’s sure half the ballerinas and chorus girls all, albeit concealed, share the same unease–really do fear that, with the wrong hallway, the Opera House may just swallow them whole. 

Confident as they may appear draped in the palatial gleam of the foyers, mingling with patrons and flattering the great and good of Paris, they gather like flocks of nervous birds as they traverse the dimmed halls, never entering their usual daytime perches the moment night falls. No longer women of poise and training, but children once more, crying ‘wolf’ at every missing earring and gasp of cold air. 

Thus, as the hour grows later and he makes his unhurried way towards his apartment– reminding himself to collect his order in the coming week–he is…surprised, to hear the low tremor of voices from the other side.

“I am telling you; they have put up the list!” One whispers, or attempts to; the result is a mockery of secrecy, pitched high and sharp, and as loud as a murmur dares to be. One…two, and three pairs of heels clack, clack, clack upon the steps beside him, metronomic and anxious, as they descend.

“And I am telling you it has been done too hastily!” Replies another, her voice smooth and unctuous, though its practiced cadence falters under the weight of irritation. An alto, perhaps, in some other life, but certainly not this one. “We only heard of the routines but a fortnight past-”

“-Did you see if any of the new ones have been chosen?” A third voice joins–Accented; Belgian, he thinks. All whispers, but still needless, headache-inducing chatter.

“I am not certain,” she speaks in a flurry, and he begins to attempt to faze them out. “I- I did see one about a swan, which I hope-”

-he must make an alteration with one of his orders-

“-Please say it is not Swan Lake again.”

And restock the pantry. He always finds it unfathomable how fast everything dissipates. 

“I-”

One of them stumbles with an expletive–a curious, almost amusing sound to hear from a lady’s mouth–and the vibration hums beneath his own feet as he ducks beneath a low beam.

“-If it is, we can count on one less chance at performing.” One of the girls cuts in with a scoff, mumbling, “the director always chooses Émilie…”

Perhaps for good reason, he thinks to himself, moving the bag in his hand again. Most of the others–bright-eyed, trembling at the edges of their confidence–still moved as if newborn fawns; all innocence and no grace. Principals were chosen so justifiably, after all.

A low murmur ripples through the group; discontent weaving between them like smoke, like starlings chittering at a cat.

For all that, he cannot entirely disagree with their grievance. Swan Lake is a thing of beauty, yes–its melodies delicate and well formed, costuming exquisite–but beauty, pressed too hard, will stale. Even loveliness, repeated ad nauseam, loses its bloom. A lesson far from learned by the managers.

The high-pitched voice from before cuts clean through the grumbling, and through his thoughts. “Mhm, but no; I believe it to be the Russian one.”

But that does remind him.

“Are you sure you are not thinking of Swan Lake?” The smooth toned one presses.

He must send a letter to the managers soon. His monthly pay has not yet come through; while it is most likely a trifling matter of accounting, he smiles to himself at the notion that the messieurs might believe themselves capable of withholding what is due.

“Certainly not,” insists the first, indignation sharpening her pitch. 

Perhaps…perhaps a small scare might hasten their attentions. 

“Are you ever certain of anything, Cécile?”

The thought brings a small smile to his face.

“Do you not remember the ballet master talking of it?” Cécile groans.

It falls as the girls continue their gossip. Wearily, he rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm. The Opera House never sleeps; not truly. Its dreams are much less fanciful, and much more tangible, if only ever to the fretful cast members. Stage long cleared, it still sings a mundane, domestic symphony; late practices, whistling cleaners, creaking bones. A tune he’s come to cherish, even yearn for, in the still silence of his apartment. 

The footsteps beside him falter. One pair, then the others, stop, and chatter their collapses into a stillness far too conspicuous. His heart sings for it. Quiet; always a hard thing to come by, especially when one wants it. After an evening spent sorting papers, tallying accounts, and attending to the dull necessities of the living, he has little fortitude left for another round of girlish squabbling.

“Surely not!”

Yet here it is.

As Cécile splutters for words, they begin to walk again, “performed recently at St Petersburg-”

“-Do not let Yekaterina hear that pronunciation-” another giggles, Belgian vowels dancing.

“-To Carmilla, no,” her voice swells, emboldened by its own conviction. “Carmen Saint-Säens’ music-”

He winces at the butchering of the vowel, “-Good Heavens, do not let us hear that pronunciation-”

“-you know who I speak of!” She snaps, exasperated. Erik brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose; glad to know he’ll be turning away from this corridor soon enough. “You two must certainly be going deaf if you do not-”

“-Please, Cécile,” the new voice–affable, uncertain, as though half-afraid it were speaking only into the dark–makes his ears, and heart, perk. At once the girls halt, and so does he. “May you keep quiet?” Tempted beyond sense, his feet shift against the boards without a sound as he brings his eye to a narrow slit in the wall. “We are not meant to be down here this late.” Even if in only splinters–in shards, in fragments–he’d know that voice, “I do not wish to be reprimanded,” know that S/C skin; know those H/C locks, bathed in the warm glow of the mounted lamps. “Or reported by one of the lamplighters.”

Gently, he smiles to himself;

“And where have you been?”

You.

You answer with something simple; a hushed murmur about retrieving a forgotten item. 

Of all, he is in the least unsurprised with your presence.

The blonde–short, button-nosed and bright even in her fluster; Cécile–murmurs her own apology before promptly linking her arm through yours as they begin their descent once again.

Late evening practices–the crisp tap of your shoes, and the somewhat gaudy tunes wrung from whatever pianist you’ve coaxed into playing at such an hour–are commonplace for you.

And, like clockwork–

As is his watching.

–his legs urge him to follow.

“Mhm,” the Belgian hums, deep brown eyes, almost black, catching the shine of the low light. “We were wandering around half-blind without you! It is like Bluebeard’s vault down here.” Her laughter flutters, thin and nervous, like a moth trapped inside a glass.

He would call it routine–he would call it ritual. 

Through a sliver of lamplight, he catches your smile; apologetic, tinged with amusement. “Forgive me,” you laugh. “I did not know you were all so afraid of the dark.”

Would call it solace, even. 

The honey-toned one scoffs, a pale hand carding through the wisps of chestnut that have escaped her tight plait. “Mm, speaks the woman as pale as a dying man. You linger here later than any of us,” he catches a playful grin; full of perfectly aligned teeth. “Do tell, what has spooked you?”

Especially on those long, tireless nights. Where it would end with just you and him; one fixated spectator to your impressive perseverance. A low hum of song, not from your own throat; not from your own mind, to accompany you. 

The Belgian interrupts whatever response you had planned with a conspiratorial giggle. “The Opera Ghost, no doubt.”

You are not afraid of many things–certainly not that which goes bump in the night. Certainly not the shadows drawn on the walls. Certainly not ghost stories. 

The others titter uneasily, the sound skittering down the stairs like loose beads. 

You have spent enough time pressed between patrons to know the darker dangers lie in the glint of gold, in the faint brush of silk. 

Behind the wall, Erik’s mouth quirks. 

But sometimes–between the guttering candles and the oil lamps–you feel as if your reflection isn’t the only pair of eyes on your form.

“If there were such a thing,” Cécile whimpers, pouting, no doubt, “out of all of us, he would have appeared to Y/N.”

You part your lips to reply, but, again, the Belgian beats you. “Who is to say he has not? Perhaps he has already placed a curse upon our dear Y/N.” The girls press closer, clinging to you as though to a talisman. Their laughter ripples nervously along the corridor, and Erik nearly lets a scoff escape. “And perhaps,” she continues, turning slyly toward you, “he has sworn her to silence.”

“Well-”

“-I say there is naught to fear.” Cécile interrupts, too quick to be entirely convincing.

Their voices begin to recede as they descend further into the warren below. Erik lowers a foot, expecting the next step, and instead finds solid ground beneath him.

“Ah, yet you are the one clinging to her for dear life!” Another teases, and their laughter swells again–lighter now, easier; swiftly drowning out their talk of ghosts–before drifting away entirely. 

Soon only their echoing footsteps remain, trailing off toward the old practice rooms as he stands at a crossroads, head turned to follow your voice.

There are still things left undone, papers and plans and the weary pull of sleep–but he is a man of patience. A man of ritual.

So he turns, steady as the wind turns the crow’s wings.

A cobweb tickles his nape.

And, as ever, he follows–the tap, tap, tapping of your shoes his metronome, his summons.

The wood is uneven beneath his feet as he follows, soundless as smoke, the bright thread of your voice through the gloom. Gaps of light fracture the darkness here and there; small, slanted panes that catch upon flaking plaster and the corroded lips of iron lamp brackets.

“...ook! I told you, Joan.”

Before long, he finds another slit in the wood, heart thumping in his chest; a thrum he cannot quell. 

“I have eyes, Cécile.”

Through it, he spies the little flock huddled close–yourself in the centre–with skirts brushing in the narrow corridor. They’re gathered around a small sheet of paper, pinned to the wall. Whatever ‘the list’ may be, the print, regrettably, is too fine to read; mere black loops of ink, barely touched by the dim halo of the lamp it hangs beside.

The Belgian turns to you, hands pointing towards the note. “Y/N! Do any pique your interest?”

You hum, tilting your head, E/C eyes narrowed as though you might will the letters into clarity. A gentle shake of your head follows, then, “No…well, Giselle’s part would be nice,” Joan nods, as does he; a programme, then? “Or even one of the Wilis.” You add, softer, now. Surely a programme. You turn your eyes to the Belgian, “What of you, Ida?”

She worries on her answer for a moment, lips pressing together before she lets it spill. “Something from La Sylphide, or like you, from Giselle.” Her gaze flicks back to the paper, lingering wistfully. A programme he was not even aware of; since when did the season’s set change so? “They’ve chosen well; the summoning, the pas de deux…so pretty.” A sigh escapes her, wistful and small. “Only one of the new ones, though…”

Cécile leans toward you, “I think you’d suit it.” almost conspiratorial in her compliment.

“Hm?” you hum. 

“‘The Swan’; the new one,” her grin widens. “I think you’d suit it.”

You return her smile, kind and bright, your eyes crinkling at their corners. Even if tired, you give the same look to the mirrors–to him–after practice; it never fails to bring heat to his face. “How can you say so when you have not even seen the new routines?”

“I spoke to the ballet master’s assistant,” Cécile shrugs, all girlish confidence. “He said it was very beautiful.”

Gently, your eyes shift back to the paper, eyes catching on the words, a smile unfurling across your lips. “It would be wonderful…” you say it under your breath, more so to yourself than your friends; as if saying it too loud would shatter your wish.

Nodding, Ida adds, “Either way, Y/N, you’d deserve such a r-” but the sentence dies upon her tongue, as if taken right from her throat. 

For an instant, he stiffens, certain he’s made some noise–a floorboard groaning under his weight, an exhale too close to the wall. His gaze darts back to you. Your head is turned to the other end of the hall, the one you came from, eyes dancing from shadow to shadow; like a partridge listening to the snap of a twig beneath a hunting dog’s foot.

Before he can decide, the whole group scatters–skirts swishing, shoes striking the wood in frantic rhythm–into the folds of the dark; only sign that you were ever there the swish of the oil lamp’s flame.

He blinks, momentarily disoriented. He’d only ever seen girls move so fast when-

-the glow of the hall swells, almost to the point of blinding. He squints, blinking rapidly at the sudden burn, before his eyes adjust and reveal…

…a lamplighter. 

Erik’s shoulders fall. He wonders if, perhaps, your covey thought the man to be him.

The man hovers a moment, eyes drifting to the sheet that had enthralled you, before he turns the wick down, extinguishing the light. Erik hears the slightest blow of air before the other man’s footsteps disappear back down the hall whence he came. 

He exhales between his teeth, steadying the wildness of his pulse. Silence returns–heavy, complete–and, with it, the hum of your voice, ringing in his ears.

For a moment, he stays stagnant in the hall; thoughts stuck on the programme. Season starts and ends smoothly, predictably; October calls for autumnal favourites–Faust, Lucia di Lammermoor and La Bayadère–as does June and its Spring, the pit growing green with Roméo et Juliette and Coppélia just before the rich leave for their countryside and seaside estates. 

So, for the second time this evening, he is given another surprise–that of a possible gala. A possible chance to see you perform; a new piece, nonetheless. 

Contemplative, he turns away, back on his original path. Shifts past his mechanisms, fades through walls, glides down below; six feet under the ground below. 

The Swan, he thinks. 

His lips curve faintly in the dark. 

How fitting.

And so, the days, the weeks, pass, as they always do; the Opera House singing its lullabies, its laments, all the same. Nights fold into days, fold into nights again, like pages of an oft-read libretto; scenes blurring and bleeding into one another. 

One week, the house is awash in crimson and brass, its stage a Bacchic revel for Don Giovanni. Tambourines rattle against the marble bones of the auditorium, dancers whirl in clouds of brocade and tulle. Another, the orchestra bellows Verdi’s elegies–air thick with incense, cigars, and the salt of practiced tears. He counts each sob before the applause erupts. 

The Arcadian pillars rattle with the sheer noise of it. 

A truly stupendous sound, but, not the one he yearns for. Not the gentle plink of the rehearsal room’s battered piano, not your exhales, not the sound of the smile in your voice–bright as Summer’s nightingales’ morning call–as you accept the cheers of your fellow dancers. 

Not your mumbles, when you believe yourself to be alone. 

It is on one of these nights, on one of these evening visits, that he hears it. 

It had been a long day–an unpleasant one, at that; mind stricken with too heavy a thought. Enough so that he’s sure the foundations of this painted marble heart shook with the despondency of his fugues. 

He had traversed upwards with the hope that it was one of the days in which you remained late into the evening, possibly without the accompaniment of a pianist. There is peace, there is comfort, in watching the bend of your legs, the frustration, then, the joy on your face as you glide across the polished floors with all the ease of the tide. Something simple to calm his mind. 

Something awe-worthy to bask in. 

He had not yet entered into the slim, hidden room behind the practice room’s many mirrors–merely a turn away from it, before he had stopped. He’s unsure where he had found himself in the song, but his ears perk nonetheless. It is not brassy, nor jubilant, but low and tremulous, as though the piano itself mourned a dying thing. The melody coils upward with a kind of sorrowed grace, tender as a farewell whispered into a fading dream. Each note falls upon him with the weight of Autumn leaves, piling somewhere deep within the hollow of his chest.

Not a song he has heard before; not one that conjures a troupe of sylphs, nor that breaks and mends Giselle’s heart.

Then, it stops. Chords scattering and fading into the wood, hypnagogic, before their absence is filled by your muffled voice; so close, yet so far.

“May you play that section again, Freja?”

There is a moment of silence, a moment where something deep within his stomach aches, before the song begins anew. It wails, quietly–something Saint-Saëns in its lilt–and he finds himself backing away with two thoughts; that he will only watch with the rest of the crowd, and that you will be magnificent. 

The melody clings long after it finishes. Even when silence settles over the Opera House once more, he hears it still; distance and warm with reminiscence. It follows him through corridors and into restless sleep, coils itself about his thoughts, and chews. Maggot to corpse; gapeworm to crow; devotion to man.

If he is to be sick with it, then he is the happiest sufferer of all humanity. 

But, suffering, as he has come to know, has a price.

During season, he knows the weeks fly by like swifts, but now–alone once more in his evenings, and abstaining from the sight of you–it seems as if even hours crawl, slower than wax surrendering to its flame. 

The building shifts in ways only the spiders and their webs truly know. First, the scent of rain on the stones as late summer fades to autumn; the faint draught seeping down from the grand vestibule when the nights grow colder. Rehearsal lamps burn earlier and longer now, their golden glow creeping through the cracks like fingers of ivy steadily conquering an abandoned abode. 

And now, slipping from staircase to staircase, a feeling he has known to name as restlessness bubbling at the tips of his fingers, he is beginning to regret his vow.

Between marble and the watchful gaze of Apollo, the strings of practice echo, albeit muffled; strong as waves crashing against a cave’s mouth, soft as wind flitting through handmade chimes. Someone whistles along with it, out of tune, yet still familiar–as all music seems to be–as he crosses from corridor to corridor, past the stares of marble busts and carefully painted Gods. 

Here, in the hush of painted grandeur, he feels the ache of absence. He feels as if each of his cells strain towards the rehearsal rooms, his feet almost betraying him, as if magnetised, and he is coming to realise that the phrases of the cast–spoken between strings and the flit of music sheets–do hold some truth to them. 

To him. 

Up and up he ascends, as far from the plink and tap of the practice rooms as he can manage. Sunlight casts its aureate glow across the walls, gilded rays slipping over frames and canvases, igniting the painted saints and heroes with false divinity. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate, when a cluster of men drifts past his wall, their shoes muffled by the carpet. Cigar stained, their laughter drips like oil, as he slides by, as always unseen and unheard.

Habit–routine–is God, here. Slips between stonework and the fingers of the candleholders as the same invisible sanctity that drapes itself across Notre Dame and La Madeleine. Early rises, late finishes, bread and wine at their proper hours; the orchestra’s tuning, the ballet master’s clap, the hush before the curtain ascends. 

The tap of your pointe shoes; steady as rosary. 

Careful, he slinks through a tighter passage, holes for the lamp fixtures offering glimpses of a group that chatter excitedly around a clerk’s desk, hums of delight swelling each time some machine–a Remington, he’s heard them call it–chimes.

He does not pay them much mind–

 “...ore of a piano than a pen…” 

“...strikes the wrong key?”

–only scoffing to himself as he peels a cobweb from his shoulder. 

He has never found much comfort in such places; not in St Michel’s, not in the many mosques of Persia–walls of stone and whispered prayers never warmed him, never saw him.

He is a patient man, he tells himself, again and again, as though repetition might make it truer. 

Still, the sentiment gnaws. It always does, and patient men find ways to ease their ailments.

Which is why he climbs–chasing height as though it were penance–towards the director’s office for the nth time in this week alone. It is not, by any means, a common haunt for him–the affairs of administration and their petty intrigues hold little allure; he leaves the odd letter if he is in disagreement with anything major–but in these weeks he feels as if he can walk the route blind. Knows which corridors cut the distance shorter; which hour finds the director and his assistant absent for luncheon; which drawer conceals that which he seeks.

And so, with the practiced ease of a ghost, once he has waited long enough beyond the wainscot to assure himself the chamber is empty, he slips inside, as he has done what feels like a hundred times before. Late afternoon light drapes itself across the dark oak furniture and paneling, spilling in thick amber bands that turn the bookcases–and their many well-thumbed books–desk and chairs into honey. It seems somewhat spartan compared to the manager’s offices–always providing themselves a certain imitation of the opulence they’re surrounded by–let alone some of the singer’s wards, but for that very reason he finds he prefers it.

Graceful, dust motes rise and drift in the beams like tiny sentinels, disturbed by the air he displaces. Mindful of the old floorboards, he carefully makes his way across to the desk, situated in front of the window. A pallid bust–Mozart, believes; a replica of the one that adorns the Opera’s façade–watches him from its perch upon the mantelpiece, blank marble gaze joined by the lifeless eyes of all the dull paintings, cradled in carved faux gold.

A faint pricking of conscience stirs when his hands begin their furtive work amongst the side-cabinets–as it has each time he has done this beforehand–but the sensation dissipates as his hands clear a small stack of bills, and grasp what he has grown to become familiar with in a drawer above its usual spot. 

With a bit of shuffling, he draws a small brown notebook from the depths of the drawer. Its cover is battered at the corners, rubbed and smoothed by frequent handling; a familiar artifact he has held many times before. The ballet master keeps something similar, that too has been searched on the one occasion he’d managed to slip it out of the man’s coat, but in the end, it is this book that matters most; where final decisions take form, and where patrons’ whims and flatteries are sifted into something resembling decree.

Loosening the string that binds it, he withdraws to a chair set back from the window’s glare and begins his work. Like a scholar leafing through some sacred codex, he turns the pages and lets his eyes glide over the careful script, each entry an incision of judgment: ‘Mlle. Bouvier, footwork commendable, elegant; contender for Giselle,’ ‘perhaps Mme. Laurent for Dido’s lam-,’ the remainder of the word smudged into obscurity, ‘Mme. Lefevre recommended by M. Vicomte du Beaumont for…’ and so on. Page after page; tidy names, tidy roles, tidy futures carved into the paper.

But not yours.

Never yours.

Just as during his last visit, he finds no mention of you. Not a single note. Not even a half-considered phrase. And, worse, the only mention of the elusive ballet he’s managed to find is a scrawled ‘cygne’ near the bottom of one of the pages, splodges of ink below it as if someone had spent too long contemplating the word. 

His hands grip the small notebook tighter as his frustration builds.

He knows you attend rehearsal–he still hears the bright cadence of your laughter and that of your companions cascading down the stairwell as the sun steals into the corridors, still catches, in weaker hours of his resolution, the ghost of unfamiliar melodies winding their way through the gloom. So, why does the page refuse you?

Why does the world of ink and decision not acknowledge what he already sees? 

Surely, he thinks, riffling the pages forward and back with increasing urgency, he must have overlooked something. Perhaps the director has begun a new volume? Has he taken to keeping his notes with the ballet master? Or–though the very notion sets his teeth on edge– have you chosen not to apply for any roles at all?

Surely not.

He heard, saw, your excitement, plain as silk, all those nights ago. You would not hide yourself away from such a chance.

His eyes skip from patron’s title to patron’s title, and the sour thought finds him that perhaps favouritism is getting in the way. That, maybe, he must gently advise some of the troupe to stay home, if only to bring the ballet master’s, the director’s, eyes to you.

Then, small, near the top corner of a page, his eyes catch upon it. 

‘Mlle L/N is performing incredibly well, no?’  

And beneath, in a finer, lighter hand: ‘Agreed.’

His breath falters, and the exasperation weaving its way through his ribs is washed away with a sense of pride at the sight of it. It is not entirely his to claim, yet it feels like a triumph, nonetheless. Though a part of him chafes at such a scant mention–the cruel brevity of it compared to the notes lavished on lesser talents–it is silenced by simmering delight.

His fingers peel away from the notebook’s leather face, and, carefully, he reaches out. A gloved finger presses to the ink, tracing the loops and curves of your family’s name.

They see you. Not in the way he sees you, not even close, but they know. You have a chance, a strong one if this notation is anything to go by, and your acquisition of it without his assistance makes the success all the sweeter. 

…yet, performance of which piece remains unseen.

He sighs to himself as his curiosity finds a way to nag at him again; the hum of the music, your music, buzzing in his ears. It whispers–tries to persuade him to take a different turn when he makes his way to his apartment, down to the endless walls of mirrors that make up the main practice room. 

Unhurriedly, he pushes himself out of the chair, closing and re-tying its string with the same meticulousness in which he found it.

Perhaps, he thinks, his mind and heart would fare better if he stayed below, where-

-a sudden ripple of chatter cuts through his thoughts; far too close.

He freezes for a moment, cursing himself for losing his ear to the corridor. With a muted hiss of the leather, he shoved the notebook deep into a drawer, loose pages crinkling under the sudden force and wood thumping dully as it shuts. Already, the key scrapes in the lock; brass handle shifting, and-

“-ainly,” he inhales to calm himself as the muffled voice of the director reverberates on the other side of the wall; clipped and measured, even through the plaster. “Ah,” Gently, he shakes his head to himself, more reflex than thought, as he begins to retreat. “And what do you say of Mademoiselle Rousseau?” Now is certainly not a time for him to be seen. “Do you think she’d…?”

But, the second voice–drawled, faintly incredulous–halts Erik mid-step.

“What?” The ballet master. “En travesti?” 

The pairing of them, voices circling possibility, possibility that touches the stage, touches you–despite himself, it snags him. Holds him.

“Yes,” replies the director. 

Makes his eyes turn towards the thin fissure in the wall.

“Her movements need much more work.” The ballet master scoffs, lightly, a kind of dismissal in his voice that he’s sure has sent many ballerinas away sulking.

Makes him want to stay, if even for a second longer, to perhaps catch a breath of what is not written down. 

The director steps into view, his angled face sharper in the sunlight. He bobs his head side to side, conceding the point but not surrendering as he mumbles, “true…” whilst dragging a hand through his already greying beard.

Erik’s gaze shifts left, “Who was your other choice?” spying the ballet master lingering, arms crossed, in the doorway.

The director’s eyes begin to drift across the same papers Erik rifled through minutes before. “Mademoiselle Deschamps.” 

At once, his attention wanes. The same names, the same tired praise, repeated like a litany.

The ballet master exhales through his nose, almost satisfied. “A good one. Why not settle on her? She’s well seasoned.”

Repeated like a litany, and nothing to do with you.

A pause, the sound of paper being lifted, considered, squinted at in minor confusion, and set aside again. The man continues, still somewhat distracted with, “We are showcasing new talent with this, no?”

The words make Erik still. His pulse leaps, caught in his throat. 

New talent. 

The phrase trembles with promise, and he clings to it–

“True, true.”

–hungry, certain–

The thump of drawers opening imitates his heart; one-two-three, one-two-three.

“Ah, that reminds me.”

–as if it had been uttered for you alone.

“How are you for The Swan? Have you made a decision yet?”

Two words. One mention–enough to coil his stomach tight, enough to have the organ twisting like a dying thing, enough to drag him closer to the wall, pressing cheek and shoulder against the plaster as if proximity alone might pull the answer out faster.

The director falters, squints down at the disordered heap on his desk; still confused, still distracted. For a sickening beat, Erik wonders if he misplaced the notebook, if in his haste he tucked it into the wrong drawer, then–“yes,” murmured absently into the air, paired with the careless hum of a man who has no notion what his words are worth.

The air thickens, weighted with his anticipation. 

Something.

Even the ballet master leans forward, silent encouragement etched in the angle of his body, urging the director onward.

Give him something.

The only answer they’re–he’s–given is the scrape of drawers and the shuffle of papers.

He has half the mind to whisper something into the air, a spectral suggestion hummed into the silence, but the ballet master fills it instead with an almost soundless, resigned exhale. “Do you still aim to print the shortlist by the end of the week?”

“Yes. Aha!” The director straightens, notebook raised aloft. “There it is.” He busies himself collecting the scattered documents, stacking them into some semblance of order. “I believe Monsieur Guérette would kill me if I didn’t.” He gathers them in his arms, rounding the desk and heading towards the door. “The costumers are already hounding me f-” 

His words cut off with the final thump of the door as both men retreat, voices trailing into the corridor beyond.

Erik slumps back, spine striking the cold, damp wall. The Opera House trembles around him, noise, noise, noise, but in this hall, draped in shadow, he hears nothing but the hollow echo of his own breath.

It is more than he has found before–yet far, far less than he craves.

Almost an answer. 

Almost confirmation. 

And ‘almost’ gnaws at him worse than silence.

He drags a sigh through clenched teeth and forces himself down the hidden staircase, but his heart pounds restlessly, mind unmoored, every nerve itching for the sight, the sound, of you.

He does not listen, for the forbearing find their cure in noise; thunderous, drowning noise.

And so he lets the thrum of his organ devour him whole.

The chords crash like storm-surf, rattling the pipes as though a tempest had set Heaven’s rafters shaking. His fingers strike harder, faster, driving thought beneath the tide of sound; fugues knotted into furious counterpoint, progressions honed fierce enough to cut marrow from bone.

The cavern vibrates. The lake quivers. Still, the ache does not abate.

Every line he spins breaks, mutates, reforms into something silky. The storm falters. A melody slips through his fingers; something delicate, something almost tender. 

Not his own, not meant to be crooned by his fingers. 

He hammers the keys, hours of trying to wrench it into dissonance, but it resists. Returns. Blossoms. 

And the walls sing it back to him. 

His shoulders tremble as he bows over the keys, breaths trembling. 

A walk, he decides. A walk, and the fresh air, will clear his mind. 

Only does he return late at night, where the blue-white rib of the new moon hangs tall in the great expanse of night; a lone lamp lighting a long forgotten street, and glimmering gently on the calm waters of the Seine. 

Paris is restless–as all cities, as all towns, as all buildings are, he supposes–even at night, and he finds the barest glint of the far-off stars has done nothing for him. His only temporary distraction was the vague shape of something being built across the waters; some great tower, taller than the Persian windcatchers, reaching higher than Apollo and his Lyre, as if it could pierce the blanket of night itself. 

Interesting as it is, still not enough for his wandering mind, which has found itself in the dim passage that leads towards the practice rooms.

Patient men’s wills are pliable when it comes to woes of the heart, after all. 

An excuse, that is what he wants. Some fragile warble of pain in your voice; a missed note from the piano–the wrong chords that you surely cannot dance to; a teacher’s rebuke, muttered harshly enough for him to seize upon, to twist into a counterpoint of praise whispered in silence.

But there is nothing. 

He can almost–almost–convince himself that you have gone home for the eve for some much deserved rest, that he’d much rather be in his own apartment, if not for the slight tap, tap, tip-tap, of your shoes. Satin against the smooth flooring, dancing to no rhythm, no beat, but still as sure as the swan swims.

Still dancing, even if your pianist for the night has gone home.

He can’t fathom why they’d wish to miss your elegance. 

It calms him; the sound of it. Like fingers of rain tapping against windows, against the roof of a house. Lets the knot in his chest unravel. Draws him in, and he wonders if it is how Icarus felt as he touched the sun. 

You grow closer, huffs of breath–just how long have you been here?–slipping through the slats, uneven and faint. The honey-toned glow of the lamps bleeds faintly through the wall of mirrors, just enough to gild the dust that trembles in the air. It spills into his passage like a half-forbidden offering, warm against the damp stone.

The practice room emerges in fragments. A curtain cleaves it in two, sagging under its own weight and drooping in the middle as if too weary to uphold its division. Near him, on the darkened side, the piano slumbers beneath its cover, silent, awaiting a willing conspirator, and on the lit half–he supposes, he knows–you.

Carefully, he passes by it, towards the light, but flinches back when he catches the flit of an arabesque. It momentarily startles him awake; reminds him of his own vow that he cannot even hold together, reminds him that all good things come to those who wait.

Then, the veil of the dream falls again, and he yearns to peak Cupid. 

But, Erik is a patient man, which is instead why his gaze flickers to the piano; glimpsing the ivory keys that wink at him in the low light. His hands itch for them. 

You huff, annoyance in your breath, a pause in your noiseless twirl, before you begin again.

A middle ground; that’s what this can be. Something satisfactory for the both of you. 

He slips through one of the mirrors, easily, silently, sliding it open.

He will not see you, and nor you, him.

Gently, he shifts the seat outwards, trying not to listen to his own heart pounding in his ears. The seat is well worn, plush of it barely a separation from the hard wood, but it will do. He shifts the drapery away, and lets his fingers hover, shaking, above the keys. 

He should go–shouldn’t he? Should he play? That’s what he’s sat here to do, has he not? 

He’s never been this close before. Always with the separation of walls, always with the distance of the stage. You are just beyond the curtain, close enough that, if not for the fabric, he could touch you. Let his fingertips graze tule, graze skin.

He clenches his fingers; a poor attempt to try to stop their quivering, to try to manage the warmth spreading through his body. 

What should he play? Giselle’s pas de deux? Something from La Sylphide? 

Or…perhaps…

His hands inch away for a moment, one of them coming to cradle the mask, cradle his face.

Fragments. That’s all he has. 

His eyes dart towards the partition.

But, that is what he has been given his whole life, no?

The hand on his face tightens. He wishes it were yours. 

Erik is a patient, patient, man–

–his hands fall back to the keys–

–and patient men do with what they have been given. 

Quietly, he wishes he weren’t. A man can be greedy, once in his life, he hopes. Carrion crows, in all their preternatural nature, in their swooping and their cawing, still listen intently to the swan’s coo. Still yearn to know what it is like to float, so easily, on the mirrored sky.

He presses down upon the first note he recalls, fingers recoiling almost at once as your startled gasp rings through the room. Lesser so the beginning of a song, more an alert of his presence. 

“Freja!” You breathe out, shock making your voice tremble, ending in a shaky chuckle. “I- I thought you were not in today.”

In the hush that follows, temptation tugs at him to speak, for he would hate this small, stolen moment to be attributed to anyone but him, yet the tap of your shoes silences the impulse.

The tap of your shoes, approaching the curtain. 

“If you’re still sick, please do go home.” He can hear the grin, the weariness in your voice, and his feet find themselves ready to dash back to the mirrors. “I am quite fine without-”

Before you can finish, his hands fall to the keys once more, the chord catching you mid-step. He plays slowly, listening, searching, for the faintest hint of movement, but the sound never comes.

If he were to look behind him, he’d see your shadow; long and posed, filling his side of the room. 

Dance. 

The shadow draws back, growing smaller as you retreat to the light once more.

Please, dance. 

He begins again, filling in what he does not know, and smiles to himself at the sound of you. Breaths light as feathered wings catching wind, falling perfectly in time with the piano. The whisper of your feet against the wood, legs weaving with the melody.

As his own breath trembles, he allows himself to wonder what you look like. To paint your face feverishly in his mind; are you smiling? Eyes closed as you let yourself be lost in the routine? Perhaps focused, brows furrowed, or features maybe loose with serenity. 

He leans forward, hunched over the keys, as though the angle could bridge the distance between the image in his mind and the reality beyond the curtain. His hands dance across the notes, but it is your phantom gestures he sees; the curl of your fingers, the sweep of your arms, each step ghosting through his imagination.

It is such a soft song. Surely you must move gently, tenderly, too. Hands carving reverent shapes from the air, feet kissing the ground as if even the wood is unworthy.

And still, his heart writhes in his chest at the thought. Only so long without the sight of you, without the thought of you, and he is undone, reduced to this.

But, he thinks, is Lucifer not permitted his dreams of angels?

As the song unfolds, he loses certainty of where the original ends and where his own invention begins. Pride will not allow him to simply repeat the past chords, to draw you both into a loop, a never ending Ouroboros of almost climaxes–that, he will not disappoint you with. Instead, his hands continue to flit from key to key, same as a weaver who pulls the strings of their tapestry–deft hands moving if only to create shape, create colour–and makes a mimicry of the Affabile. 

Dance.

He lets it ebb and swell, rising like breath, sinking like the hush between heartbeats. The melody dips low, tender as a lullaby, just as the original calls for, then flares again with limerence and grandeur. 

Please, dance for me.

Vague, he feels the caress of your shadow–inky fingers drifting, feather light, over his shoulders–just as he reminds himself what he should be playing. It almost makes his hands halt on the keys all together, but, instead, he forces them to wane, drawing the final phrases out as if he could bask in them forever. 

Still, eventually, his fingers still; trembling above the ivory just as they had before.

The last notes hang in the air, and, for a few short moments, the Opera House, the world, is silent around the two of you, and he hopes, if he were ever granted Heaven, that it sounded like this.

Then, the hush shifts, broken by your exhale–a surprised thing that is half laugh, half astonishment. It makes the tips of his fingers buzz, as if the last chords, as if your voice, had hidden itself there, beneath his skin. 

“Freja,” you breathe into the silence, the syllables rippling outward and stirring the lamplight until it trembles. “Since when were you, ah…” A small laugh slips free as you lift one leg, shaking loose the ache coiled in the muscles of your calves and thighs. “What have you called it…frem-ragen-de?” The chuckle that follows is gentle, self-mocking, and the steady tap of your steps draws closer to the curtain. “I hadn’t realised you’d taken such a liking to impro-”

You are met with naught but absence. Only the faint smell of warmed wood, an empty chair neatly tucked away, and the piano veiled in its white cloth once more, untouched, as if no hands had ever woken it into song.

Behind the piano, your reflection smiles at you.

It is not something you speak of; merely a memory–a realised dream of an exhausted, half-asleep mind–that hangs heavy on your countenance, and, he fears, scares you from evening practice. 

He does not make any more visits; he’s satiated, for now, his hunger for presence, but he does keep his eyes on the paper work of the director’s desk. On the scrawled notes in his notebook, and the gossip of the costumers. And for that, he knows that it has not curbed your ardour in the slightest.

Waterfowl never startle easily to the shadow of a mere corvid, afterall. 

So, when the week finally meets its end, he does drift down, along with the other excited gaggles of girls and their mothers, to gaze upon what has been laid, like scripture, upon the walls. Between various updos, the dancers gathered–voices overlapping in laughter, in sighs, in quick gasps of triumph or disappointment–in a tight bunch, he spies it; the grand poster, the gospel of decisions, heavy and pasted tall. 

His gaze scorches over it with the fever of expectancy, with built up impatience, scanning past titles, past the careless script of other girls’ futures, until-

-there. Your name. Looped and grand, paired with a dance that has been renamed, he supposes, to ‘The Dying Swan.’

What joy it is to watch you. To see the relief, the utter elation, cross over your features as you laugh in something akin to disbelief to your friends. Your hands jitter at your sides before you bring them upwards, unsure what to do with the exhilaration flooding through you. 

His own twitch, a silent yearn to clasp them in his, and your friend, Ida, completes the action for him; bringing you into a tight embrace. Even with your head pressed into the nook of her neck, praise swarms you and, while some of it is weaved with jealousy, he’s sure, you deserve every word of it.

Your grin, caught between the slats of wood, burns itself into his mind, as if waxed stamped, and, even if Erik is a patient, patient, man, he allows himself not to leave such a thing untended to. He makes do lingering on the edges, as he always has, barely grazing the lace trim of your work; prying into the notes of those with power, catching the murmurs whispered between the corps de ballet, peering the set pieces as they’re passed from stagehand to stagehand to the storage rooms.

Something to satisfy him, yes, but also to be certain you remain where you belong; part intact, competence unchallenged. 

And, just as the itch mounts, just as he begins to yearn for you and the rehearsal room’s piano once more, the day comes. Fit between the week’s performance of Faust–while a favourite, one he finds he cannot sit still for this time–and Les Huguenots, it settles upon the Opera House like a silken veil; calm, thin, and as if one snag would tear the mere idea of it apart.

The hum of the auditorium is different than that of the walls, the practice rooms and the wings. 

Here, at the great thundering heart of it all, sound swells and blooms; patrons’ laughter rising and falling like distant bells, the clink of champagne flutes destined to be left half-drunk. It rolls through the red, velour seats and gilded balconies until it almost, almost, becomes a song in of itself. 

Distantly, jewels and rings and promises glitter around him, shining like stars in the light of the chandelier–walls warm with expense, accented by the grinning cherubs and the halcyon blue of the false, painted sky; the limit for all dreams, here.

In the box to his right, a woman, and who he supposes is her husband, chatter endlessly in their drawling, nasal accents about something in the mountains, and a marriage ceremony that he’s found mildly entertaining to hear about. Though, it does nothing to distract him from his restlessness. Nothing truly can, he thinks. He knows it is only a few minutes until the calcium lights dim, can tell by the shifting of the musicians in the pit, but he still finds himself tapping his foot on the carpet beneath him.

He glances towards the programme–the title ‘Grief Endured, Farewells Whispered; a diverse eve’ stark against its dove white body–resting on the seat beside him, companion to the customary box of chocolates that he never eats. His hands reach for it, gloved fingertips grazing the thin paper as he flits through the pages. Titles parade before his eyes–‘Addio del passato’ from ‘La Traviata’, Beethoven’s ‘Ah! Perfido’, fragments of ‘Giselle’, the mournful ‘When I Am Laid in Earth’ from ‘Dido and Aeneas’, ‘La Sylph’–until the names blur into an index of farewells and lamentations. But, then, amid the sea of print, his gaze snags upon yours.

First on the programme.

A tremor courses through him–something akin to adrenaline–but, before he can think too long upon it, the auditorium around him begins to change. The warm glow dims; a hush sweeping the room, like a wind blowing out the candles in a house.

At once, his attention is shifted, leaflet set aside; watchfulness unwavering.

He is a patient man, and patience, he thinks as the heavy, carmine curtain spreads and rises, has never rewarded him more richly than this. 

The piano starts mellow; just as he had remembered it. For a few moments, it is just the stage, a deep darkness, the yawning void of potential, and the music: loud as water hurrying through a riverbed, quiet as wind threading its fingers through the many arms of a willow.

Even surrounded by over a thousand–Paris’ pretentious donned in white bow ties and lace; fans fluttering like hummingbirds; temporary votaries worshiping at the altar of art–he feels, as the cello–how magnificent it sounds–laments, and you appear, that the two of you are the only ones in the world.

Your back is turned as you glide en pointe towards the centre of the stage, arms rising and falling in measured undulations as if controlled by the tide rather than will, your dress–a perfectly executed swathe of moon white feathers and opalescent sequins, as if you were a Schwanjungfrau caught halfway undressed–stark against the darkness. A star, luminescent, brought down from the sky above if only for a few burning, dazzling moments.

A ghost of the firmament; permitted for seconds to walk amongst men.

And, when you turn–chin lifted towards the painted cherubs, towards him–something in his chest twists. Knots. 

You bend and dip, feet and arms stumbling, jolting, in something between control and disorder; brows furrowing as you do, almost as if you were in pain. 

Genuine, palpable torment. 

Not that of a wound in your side, something that tears and throbs as you move, but an old ache.

Slow, you sink towards the ground, not quite falling. Your head drops with the rest of you, face hidden in shadow with arms sweeping low.

Like a scar that still aches with a memory. 

Just as fast as you fell, you rise again along with the cello.

Like sorrow–like grief.

Your arms–your wings–beat harder, before steadying themselves; sequins catching the light once more, shimmering like moonlight across water, like the burn of a candle flickering in a gust, as your body wavers.

An expression deep enough, etched onto your face with all the despair of Cain, that he only knew himself to wear. 

You twist and turn, movements desperate, almost frantic, as if you were searching for something just beyond reach, or fleeing the drag of an unseen hand.

It is a strange, cruel thing to realise. To feel; to witness. 

Your legs rise in a flurry of arabesques, head and gaze thrown towards a sky you cannot reach, cannot see, before gravity calls you back down. 

To see himself–his own restless, grasping soul–in something so beautiful. Something so elegant, fine, soft as silk and murmured, sweet-nothings. Things of which he’s never had, never touched, never drowned himself in.

Gentle, you fold in on yourself, head bowed low, nestled between your outstretched arms like a prayer whispered too late.

He is no creature of grace and purity, destined to be mourned by kings and adored by crowds. He never was, never will be–born marred; a voice in the rafters, a shadow on the sill, doomed to watch splendour from afar.

You bring your head back up like it’s some great weight and hover your arms above you, bending and staring upwards once more in what he might call reverence. Then, with a sudden, aching urgency, you surge upwards. Your back to the audience now as the cello croons and the piano hums its sorrow; desperation in the way you reach and reach, arms stretched like a supplicant’s plea, and, for a fleeting second, he believes you might truly take flight. Ascend to the rafters,  rise beyond the glares and the stares, beyond the fickle applause and sharper reprimands, beyond the reach of all hands.

Even the slightest comparison, and it feels almost wrong–is wrong; wrong the way smog blackens a spring sky, wrong the way oil sullies the surface of water–for, afterall, man’s hatred, a mother’s hatred, has made him a monster. 

You turn back towards him, a laboured act, your arms drooping with exhaustion.

But it settles in his chest none the same. 

Pain twists your face as you attempt another arabesque, only to falter–still en pointe, tap, tap, tapping, one-two-three, one-two-three–as if the very act of standing were agony. Your own body, own image, failing you.

He understands the title, now.

Your arms stretch outwards, seeking a support that never comes; a gust too weak to let you take flight. 

He feels it–nestled in his heart, where it has always been, and sitting heavy in his gut; almost like fear, almost like longing. As if he stands at the bank of the river, unable to help, unable to dampen his feathers–powerless because he was not made for the great tumult of the current; barely made for the skies himself. 

The piano cascades downwards beautifully–oh how beautifully–as you float down towards the floor, rising and falling, rising and falling, until at last, you lay your head to rest. Wings outretched, feathers drenched, weighted by your own being, as the tide of the river gradually ushers you away. 

Something once admired, quickly out of sight, quickly out of mind.

As the audience roars, he finds tears falling down his face. 

------------------

Thank you so, so much to the requestor for giving me the chance to write tpoto again–although, I do apologize that this took a hot minute for me to string together. My mind decided to blast me with like, twenty different scene ideas that I determined to include, plus, this is my first time writing from Erik’s POV, so I apologise if some parts seem out of character. I tried challenging myself further by writing more solidly in a Victorian style (in my other oneshot, I think I just went ‘formal with a low frequency syntax’, while in this I paid more attention to sentence structure, more period accurate word choice etc.), so, I hope it isn’t too horrible lmao. I don’t think I nailed the flow, but if I kept agonising over this, I don’t think it would’ve ended up being posted until January or something lmao.

Frustrations aside (I think I say this in everything I write) it was fun! Very nice to dredge out all of my Opera and Classical music knowledge for a little bit, as it was to learn of a new Pas Suel. The descriptions of MC’s dance are based off of Natalia Osipova’s performance of The Dying Swan, since I found I much preferred that to the, albeit still beautiful, original choreography performed by Anna Pavlova. 

Historical notes // jargon translations:

Saint-Säens’ = The umlaut is intentionally placed wrongly on the ‘a’ instead of the ‘e’, creating a mispronunciation.

Bluebeard’s vault = ‘Bluebeard’s castle’ is an old French fairy-tale in which a high ranking man, Bluebeard, weds a woman, and leaves on business; handing her the keys to the house. He only has one rule, which is to not enter the vault, of which houses the corpses of his previous dead wives. I think you can guess what she ends up doing. 

A remington = A typewriter. 

St Michel’s = Erik is noted to be born in a small town outside of Rouen, and I chose this to be Hénouville; St Michel's is the Parish church there.

En travesti = In theatre, this means ‘trouser role’ or, it can be modernly translated as ‘in drag’. This is in which a female dancer would play a male character, or vice versa. 

Great tower = This oneshot is unambiguously set in 1888, so this is implied to be the Eiffel tower, which was originally only built to stand for the 1889 Exposition Universelle (World’s Fair, which happens every five years and is held in different countries; the last being held in Osaka, Japan this year). It would've been quarter to half-way done, being around 115 meters, and therefore the tallest building in Paris at the time

Persian windcatchers = Large, chimney like structures commonly used in Iran (Persia) post late 20th century used to create ventilation and cooling systems in buildings; basically ancient AC. They can get up to 34 meters tall.

Fremregande = Danish; translates to ‘excellent’. 

Drawling, nasal accents = People with Franc-Comtois dialect and accent (especially the older generations), aka where the couple is implied to be from, often talk much slower, and sometimes more 'nasal-y' in comparison to the Parisian accent, which has much more clear intonation.