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No Words Left Unspoken - The Phantom of the Opera x Male Reader
Warnings: None, other than absolute tooth-rotting fluff and a TEENSY-WEENSY bit of projecting lol
FEM-ALIGNED BLOGS DNI
Note: OMG I ACTUALLY POSTED? I’m low key so sorry to everyone that I’ve been gone for so long, PLZ FORGIVE ME! I’ve been going through an INSANE Phantom of The Opera phase recently, and this idea has just been floating around in my brain, so I figured that I’d write it. I also wanted to write the dialogue in French and finally use my skills, but I realized that there’s way too much talking for that :( also this thing is SO LONG
FIC UNDER THE CUT
The Opéra Populaire had never seen anything like it before. A Kabuki troupe had arrived from Japan, bringing with them a style of performance so foreign, so alluring, that it transfixed everyone who witnessed it. Among them was Y/n, a star working with the company to achieve fame, and an onnagata—a male actor who specialized in female roles. His grace and beauty were unparalleled, his every movement capturing the very essence of womanhood. His long, flowing robes and painted face transformed him into a vision of ethereal femininity and often rivalled that of the women in the production team. One thing that y/n often struggled with, however, was many thinking that he is just a beautiful woman playing these roles, and as an actor, he was feminized into this twisted version of himself that wasn’t a true representation of him.
The Phantom of the Opera has always watched from the shadows. and here he was, watching yet again. But something was different this time. This new form of theatre was not unwelcome here, as the Opéra Populaire has always been a home of the arts, no matter which kind, and he had been entranced by the performers before, but Y/n was different. The Phantom had always believed that true beauty lay in tragedy, in the forbidden and impossible love he had harbored for Christine Daaé, But Y/n’s presence had stirred something new within him, a deep and unexpected longing. Slowly closing the hole Christine had left behind.
Night after night during the rehearsals, The Phantom watched as Y/n glided across the stage, his delicate hands moving with precision, his voice lilting in melodies foreign yet intoxicating. The Phantom could not take his eyes off of him. From the moment Y/n entered the opera house, Erik had been captivated, convinced that the performer was a woman of unmatched beauty and grace. His heart, once so hardened by rejection and isolation, softened at the sight of her— though Erik did not yet know the truth.
He left notes in Y/n’s dressing room, signed only with a flourish of a rose. He composed hauntingly beautiful pieces on his organ, each one inspired by the way Y/n moved, the way his voice danced in the air. Gone was his melancholy opera pieces, replaced by works that were softy and harboured unseen adornment towards his muse. The Phantom’s obsession grew, as it always did, until he could no longer bear to remain unseen.
On opening night, after the performance, The Phantom made his move. He waited in the fly tower, his heart racing as Y/n finished his final bow and made his way backstage. The theater was emptying of both patrons and performers, but Y/n stayed behind, unwinding from the night’s work, his silken robes draped around him. The Phantom, cloaked in darkness, stepped forward.
“You are a vision,” his voice echoed through the room, low and melodic, sending a shiver down Y/n’s spine. “An angel who has graced my stage and my theatre.” Y/n turned slowly, his eyes searching the shadows. “And you are you?” he asked, his voice gentle but curious, his accent wrapping around the French words in a way that made them sound even more delicate.
“I am the one who watches from the dark,” Erik replied, stepping into the dim light, his mask catching the glow. “I have admired you from afar, but I can no longer keep my distance.”
Y/n froze for a moment, thrown off, before his lips curved into a soft smile, his painted face serene. “You are the Phantom, are you not? The one the others speak of.”The Phantom nodded, his breath catching as he looked into the other’s eyes—so soft, so full of mystery. He had imagined this moment, this meeting, countless times. He could not resist the pull any longer. “I have seen many singers, many dancers, but none as captivating as you.”
Y/n tilted his head, curious. “Why do you find me so captivating?”
The Phantom stepped closer, his voice a whisper. “Because you are a woman of great beauty, of talent unmatched.”
Y/n’s smile faltered slightly, his eyes flickering with something The Phantom couldn’t quite read. He had encountered this before—audiences who fell in love with the woman they believed him to be, only to realize the truth later. But something in the Phantom’s intensity made Y/n hesitate.
“I am not what you think I am,” Y/n said softly, his voice gentle but firm.
The Phantom frowned. “What do you mean?”
Y/n hesitated, then gracefully reached up and began to remove his ornate wig, revealing his hair underneath. “I am not a woman,” he said quietly, turning away from the Phantom. “I am an actor. An onnagata. I play the role of women, but I am a man.”
For a long moment, The Phantom said nothing. He stared, his mind reeling with the revelation. Y/n’s delicate features, his graceful movements—how could this be true? But as the silence stretched on, the Phantom realized something that surprised even him.
It didn’t matter.
He stepped closer, his mask hiding the emotions that swirled within him. “You say you are not a woman,” he said slowly, “but that does not change what I see. You are an artist, a performer, and I am drawn to you—not because of the mask you wear, but because of the soul behind it.”
Y/n looked at him, his dark eyes wide with surprise. “You do not care that I am a man?”
The Phantom shook his head, his voice softer now. “No. I care that you are you. You are more than your role, more than the costume or the mask. I see beauty in your art, in your spirit. I have lived my life behind a mask, hiding from the world. I know what it means to be unseen for who you truly are.”
Y/n’s breath caught in his throat. He had never met someone like him, someone who saw beyond the surface, beyond the illusion. Slowly, he took a step closer to the Phantom, his eyes searching the latter’s for the truth.
“Then perhaps,” Y/n whispered, “we are not so different after all.”The Phantom’s heart pounded in his chest as he reached out, gently taking Y/n’s hand. “No, we are not.”
In that moment, there was no need for masks or performances. The Phantom, who had always believed himself incapable of love, found solace in the presence of the one person who understood his isolation, his need to hide. Y/n, who had spent his life transforming into someone else on stage, found comfort in being seen for who he truly was. They stood there, together, in the dim light of the opera house, their connection as real as the roles they had once played. And for the first time, both the Phantom and the Kabuki actor knew what it meant to be truly seen.
