#thisangelinhell

A choked sound - halfway between a sob and a gasp of pure vertigo - escapes him. He springs upward from his chair, the wood scraping sharply against the floor. He staggers backward, moving several paces away from you into the center of the workshop. He stands with his back partially turned to you, his fingers twitching violently at his sides. His chest heaves, his breathing turning shallow as the meaning of your words crashes over him.

He shakes his head again, more frantically this time, his jaw trembling. Tears overflow his lower lid, tracing lines down his exposed cheek. He feels a joy too great for his scarred soul to contain. But of course, he also can’t surpress the lifelong instinct that he is entirely unworthy of it.

He wants to look at you, but he forces his eyes away, staring at the floor. "You cannot…", he chokes out, his voice cracking in despair. "You do not know what you are saying, Y/N. You have not seen my face. And if you saw what lies beneath, if you looked upon the horror standing before you, you would not… you could not…”, he trails off, the sentence having several possible endings in his mind. You would not say those words to me, and you could not possibly love me. 

You slowly rise from your chair, pondering your next words with deliberate tenderness. "I would be lying if I said I didn't want to see your face, Erik.", you say softly. "But the truth is... I really don't have to. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not in a month, or a year." Erik flinches as if struck, turning around slowly to look at you. His brown eyes are wide with utter disbelief, staring at you through a thick veil of tears. "What is beneath your mask will not change how I see you, or what I feel for you.", you continue, stepping just a little closer. "What is most important to me is that you feel safe with me, Erik. And if that means I will never see what is beneath your mask, then that is entirely okay with me."

A broken sob tears from his chest, and his legs give out beneath him. Erik falls to his knees right before you, his hands clutching desperately at the ivory silk of your robe. He buries his masked face against your skirt, his entire frame trembling with violent, cathartic weeping.

"I do not deserve this.”, he mumbles between sobs, his voice choked and muffled by the fabric. His hands grip you with a reverent tightness. "I do not deserve you..."

You sink to your knees in front of him, his hands letting go of the fabric of your skirt. "Erik.", you say softly, your voice a gentle command for his attention. He slowly lifts his head, dragging his eyes upwards to meet yours through a blur of tears.

"You do.", you tell him. 

Erik casts his gaze down again, lightly shaking his head in an instinctive gesture of denial. You take his hands and nod at him, your expression one of unwavering conviction. “You do.", you repeat. His eyes lock onto yours. You take a breath, the corner of your mouth tugging upwards. "I will tell you as many times as it takes for you to believe me." you add, your voice laced with stubborn certainty.

At the obstinacy of your devotion, the ghost of a smile breaks through his grief. He lowers his head, pressing a slow, trembling, and utterly reverent kiss to the back of your hand. You stay like that for a moment, holding hands as his ragged breathing begins to slow. Once the violent tremors in his shoulders quiet into what is almost stillness, you gently squeeze his fingers.

"Come." you murmur, offering him a warm, encouraging smile. "We still have some adjustments to do on the shoreline, and I most definitely want to see if it will work."

Erik stands, extending a hand to help you up. Unspoken gratitude radiates from him. For a man haunted by shame, your seamless pivot back to his project is a lifeline. You aren't treating him like a fragile broken thing, nor are you weaponizing his vulnerability. You are allowing him to be himself, which is yet another miracle to him. 

As you both step back to the drafting table, it is undeniable that something fundamental has shifted. It is visible in the gravity of his gaze. He looks at you even more frequently now, his brown eyes tracking your movements with a newfound awareness.

Returning to your chairs, Erik reaches for some crafting tools; steel chisels, miniature gouges, and cedarwood. "Can I try carving one, too?" you ask, though you have no experience whatsoever in woodcarving. Erik blinks, his expression one most fittingly described by pleasant surprise. "Certainly.”, he murmurs. He sets a small block of wood before you and selects a curved detail chisel. He hands it to you, careful to hold it in a way that you can grab the handle without your skin being near the steel.

For the next hour, the workshop is filled with the comforting sounds of creation. The s satisfying sound of steel cleanly parting wood mixes with the scent of the cedar shavings piling on the table, and the quiet crackle of the hearth. Erik is an astonishingly gentle instructor, and he is more patient than you would have guessed. Whenever you cant quite seem to get an area to the shape you wished for, he leans close, his chest brushing your shoulder as he lightly guides your wrist, showing you how to angle the blade.

You both take a while to pin the new, hand-carved shoreline pieces securely into place. When you are finished, the miniature stage looks remarkably organic, the jagged rocks tilted toward the center. Erik steps back, letting his eyes wander over the model, and nods. He gestures toward the small silver crank on the side. 

You lean forward, your fingers finding the handle, and give it a smooth, steady turn. The brass gears click into a synchronized dance. The wooden waves begin to ripple, and from the hidden chamber beneath, the mist rises. This time, the draft catches the fog against the curves of the shoreline you just built together. The mist is forced inward, gathering momentum until it spirals upward in a breathtaking, ghostly vortex right around the miniature ship.

"Oh, Erik!" you cry out, a radiant, joyful laugh escaping your lips. "It works! It looks positively eerie, and absolutely wonderful!"

Erik doesn't look at the stage. He is looking entirely at you.

As he watches the genuine joy on your face, and the way the light dances in your eyes as you smile, a realization takes root in his mind.

Your fierce words of affection hadn't magically cured him. A single night could never wash away decades of systematic cruelty, or the deeply ingrained hatred he felt whenever he thought of himself. The dark, twisted roots of his self-loathing are still very much intact.

But as he looks at you, all the ways you treat him with kindness come crashing back to him. The gentle touch of your delicate hands. The utter lack of disgust in your eyes when you look at him, even as he wept. The way you trust him with the most painful fragments of your past. The fact that you are here, contentedly covered in wood carvings, despite what feels like half of Paris wanting to be your suitor. 

He arrives at a conclusion that is both beautiful and utterly devastating.

He believes you. 

He believes that your feelings are real. 

It is a terrifying epiphany for a man who has used solitude as a shield. To accept that you truly love him means tearing down his own armor. It means allowing himself to hope, which might be the most dangerous thing a monster like him can do. Yet, looking at your smile, he realizes he has already surrendered. 

He is entirely, irrevocably yours.

"It is perfect." Erik whispers, his voice soft and low. His gaze carries an intensity that quite clearly has nothing to do with the model, and everything to do with you.

As the mechanism winds down and the mist dissipates, a peaceful silence settles over the workshop. The absolute emotional storm of the night has finally passed, leaving behind a deep, comforting warmth.

Erik notices the exhaustion pulling at your eyelids, and a multitude of considerations cross his mind. The thought of sending you back to the prima donna room feels like a physical wrenching of his spirit. He wants you here, safe within the dark empire he has carved for himself. He wants you as close as he has rarely ever permitted himself to imagine. 

Yet, he feels he is a shadow, and you are the light; he is terrified that if he reaches out, he might extinguish the very thing he truly wishes to protect.

Still, he finds himself offering his arm, guiding you away from the cluttered drafting tables and back to the plush velvet settee. You sit and watch him as he retrieves the two crystal goblets of Firmin's imperfect wine. He hands you your glass, and sits down beside you.

He sits beside you, his posture rigid as he keeps an agonizingly respectful distance. His eyes travel over your form. You see them lingering on your neck, then move to your lips, his gaze burning with an uncertainty that makes your heart ache. You shift to put your glass aside, feeling him track your every move. Then, you lean into his space. When your faces are mere inches apart, you see his eyes flickering to your lips once more. His throat bobs as he swallows. You look up to him through your lashes, staying close, waiting for him to close the gap. 

But he doesn’t. 

"You are impossible, Erik.", you say, and cannot help but chuckle softly. He blinks, startled, his eyes searching your face. "I... I do not follow." he stammers, his voice barely a breath. You tilt your head slightly, letting your own gaze drop from his eyes to his lips. "Kiss me.“, you whisper, holding his eyes once more.

A subtle tremor runs through his frame. Your words are a command he is starving to obey. He sets his glass aside and reaches out, his hand rising to trace the line of your jaw. You can feel the faint trembling of his fingers - slightly cold from holding the glass - against your skin. With a maddening slowness, he slides his thumb from your jaw to your lower lip, tracing the sensitive skin there. He sees the way your breath hitches, the way a flush creeps up your neck, and he finds himself struck by a wave of pride. 

"In all the dark, lonely years I have spent dreaming of this…", he murmurs, his voice barely a rasp, "I never dared imagine that you would look at me as you do now."

And with that realization, he stops listening to the internal voices filled with self-loathing and fear, and instead listens only to the frantic beating of his own heart.

He leans in, letting his hand move to cup the back of your neck. He tilts your head up, then his lips find yours. They are soft, so very soft, as he kisses you with a reverence that borders on worship. His other hand comes up to rest against your waist, anchoring you to him.

The kiss breaks painfully slowly, as slowly as it began, and the air between you feels like something sacred. You pull back just enough to look at him. Then, using the fact that one of his arms is still on your waist, you move to rest your head against his shoulder. Erik stiffens as he feels one of your arms wrapping around his middle. But then, feeling the weight of you against him, his posture thaws. He shifts slightly to ensure you are comfortable. Inwardly, he is breathless, feeling something close to… happiness? To feel you resting against him, to feel the rhythm of your breathing matching his, feels like his most profound accomplishment.

You are curled into him, tucking your legs up onto the settee, while he sits with his arm firmly, if somewhat tentatively, draped around your waist. He does not dare move the hand that rests at your side, content with feeling the warmth of you through the fabric of your dress. For a long while, there is only comfortable silence in the sanctuary that is his home. 

Eventually, Erik breaks the quiet, his voice dropping into a low, inquisitive hum. "Earlier…" he murmurs, his gaze fixed on the dying glow of the fire, "…you mentioned your world was stained before…“, he uses his free hand to vaguely gesture to himself. „I have wondered... do you mean the fire, or the circumstances surrounding it?" He pauses, his hesitation palpable. 

You feel a tightness forming in your chest, luckily not as intense as it was before. You exhale slowly, your gaze turning distant, staring past the fireplace into the dark, yawning shadows. You tell him of the man who had followed you, the persistence of him, and the desperate moment where you had been forced to protect yourself. You speak without tears, your voice hollow and steady, detached from the memory as if recounting a nightmare that had happened to someone else.

Erik had gone still, listening intently. He stares at you at the realization of what you just told him.

He has never, ever imagined that the kindhearted woman in his arms - the one who sees beauty in his mechanics and something worthy in his wretched soul - has been forced to take a life. 

As his shock dissipates, it is replaced by a blistering rage. Not towards you, of course, but toward the man who had dared to threaten you, to stain your innocence with his utterly unwanted attention. His grip on your waist tightens, his fingers pressing firmly into you. "That scum…", he growls, the vibration of his voice rumbling through his chest against your ear. "He deserved far more than what you gave him. He was a blight. I would have–…“ He catches himself, the hand that lay on the armrest now a white-knuckled fist. He pulls you even closer, resting his chin on the top of your head as if to shield you from the very memory of it.

His rage subsides into a protectiveness that envelops you like a weighted blanket. The conversation dies away into the quiet of the night. Nothing more needs to be said, and you are positively exhausted. As the firelight fades into the softest pulsating orange, the residual tension of the long day finally unwinds. 

You feel profoundly safe, cocooned in the strength of his arms and the warmth of his body. The world above ceases to exist, and with Erik’s heart beating next to you, you slip away into unconsciousness, letting sleep take you over. 

The fire has burned down to the weakest, deep orange pulse. Erik does not move. In fact, he has not at all moved in an over hour. He is terrified that even a shallow breath might disturb your peace. That if he stirs, the reality of you resting here – safe and warm with his arm wrapped around your middle –will evaporate like a fever dream.

He feels the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of your chest against his side. It is a cadence so beautiful it puts all he‘s ever composed to shame. It is sacred. 

He stays like that for a long time, watching you, memorizing the way your hair spills over his sleeve. He knows he cannot keep you here forever. The world above is waiting, and he knows he is a shadow that will snuff out your light if he forces you to stay in the dark. But maybe, just maybe, he can keep you for tonight. 

With agonizing care, he adjusts his position, careful to keep a steadying arm on your back. He half stands, half kneels to put another arm beneath your legs. Slowly, he lifts you up, earning a soft sleepy hum from you. He stops, and you instinctively shift, your head tucking deeper into his chest, your hand coming up to rest against it.

Erik freezes entirely, his heart hammering against his ribs. The simple, trusting movement making him hold his breath for a second. He carries you toward the velvet-draped bed, moving as if you are made of blown glass; weightless and infinitely precious. 

He lays you down gently, pulling back to drape the duvet up to your shoulders. As he does, your robe shifts slightly, sliding open just enough to reveal the curve of your collarbone and the soft, pale skin of your chest.

The air in the room suddenly feels thin.

His gaze lingers on the exposed skin, his breath catching. He sees the way your chest rises and falls in the quiet dark, and for a moment, his adoration shifts into something else. For a fleeting second, his thoughts spiral. He wonders what it would be like to be there, beside you. To be so close to you. To be feel the warmth of your skin on his fingertips, and the thrumming of your pulse beneath his lips. To hear the beautiful, soft sounds you might make. To have you want him not for his mind, but for the man he tries so desperately to suppress. His pulse thrums in his throat. His body betrays him, reminding him that somewhere beneath the monster, he indeed is a man.

He clenches his hands into fists at his sides, turning his face away from the bed. You are a monster, the inner voice screams, and she is an angel. He shouldn't be having these thoughts. Not when you have just given him your trust, not when you have been nothing but a pure, unwavering light in his miserable life. He counts himself lucky you tolerate him at all; he should be grateful, not greedy.

He forces himself to walk away, his movements stiff as he retreats to his writing desk. He sits, the heavy silence of the lair pressing in on him, and pulls a sheet of parchment toward him. He picks up his pen, his hand still trembling, and begins to pour what he feels onto the page; dark, swirling lines of melody that speak of longing, possession and a hunger he does not want you to see. He finds himself constructing a musical cage for his desires so they may never escape to hurt you.

Hours pass. 

He does not sleep. 

Instead, he spends the night alternating between composing and stealing glances towards the bed. He watches the way you breathe, the way the firelight catches your profile, and as he does, he finds that the cruel voice of his own self-loathing has grown strangely quiet. In the presence of your sleeping form, the abyss that usually threatens to swallow him feels distant. 

He realizes that when you are near, he does not have to fight as hard to exist; he simply is. Which might be the most healing thing he has ever known.

But his mind inevitably drifts to the world above, and his insecurity and jealousy return. He is aware that with every new performance, the Opera House will fill with the men who hunger for you. He imagines the Raouls and Julians of the world, the entitled crowds who gather to watch you perform. He has seen them before, the hundreds of eyes that drink in your light while he is bound to the shadows. 

The frustration coils in his gut, sharp and painful. A primitive, monstrous part of him wants to build walls, to lock you away where no one can ever look upon you again, to keep you entirely for himself.

But then, his eyes find your sleeping face once more, and he thinks of the brilliant mind behind it. He knows the fire in your eyes when you sing, the sheer joy of your craft. 

To lock you away would be to extinguish the very thing he loves. He realizes, with a dawning sense of clarity, that he cannot be the selfish beast part of him yearns to be. 

Simply because he loves you. 

Truly. 

Painstakingly. 

Wholly.

So he needs a plan.

A strategy for a life he never thought he could have. 

He needs to figure out how to navigate your career and your suitors, to have you be as brilliant as you were meant to be without loosing you. 

He remembered the day you arrived. He remembered every arrival, for the Opera Populaire was his body, and every new soul was a foreign particle he had to either absorb or expel. You had been dragged in from the Parisian gutters by Madame Giry as a soot-stained girl of sixteen who looked as though she had been forged in a cold hearth. For the first few months, it was as if you were not even there. You stayed exactly where you were told, huddled in the corner of the rehearsal halls, eyes wide and unreadable.

Erik watched from the vents as you began to slip away from the crowded dormitory, from the other girls. At first, you only moved a few feet into the hallway to breathe. Then, you found the service stairs. Slowly, deliberately, you began to explore the stone arteries of the house. You didn't seek the sunlight of the foyer, you sought the places where the silence was absolute.

Initially, he had watched you with a predator’s irritation. You were an intruder in his secret passageways. He had shadowed you through the lower cellars during your first month, his hand hovering over the levers of his "deterrents," waiting for the moment you strayed too far so he could send a chill down your spine and drive you back to the light.

But the moment he intended to break you was the moment he became fascinated by you.

It had happened in the third cellar, near a hidden pressure-plate designed to trigger a low, mourning groan from the ventilation shafts. It was a sound meant to simulate the wailing of a restless spirit. You had stepped on it, and the sound had echoed, hollow and terrifying, through the stone corridor.

Erik had waited for the scream, the frantic scramble of your slippers as you retreat. Instead, you had gone perfectly still for a moment. You didn't look over your shoulder for a ghost. You knelt. With a calm that bordered on the unnatural, you reached out and brushed the dust away from the seam in the floorboards. You stayed there for an hour, your head tilted, listening to the way the air whistled through the mechanism. You weren't frightened, you were studying. You traced the edge of the iron plate with your fingertips, a look of clinical interest, or even fascination on your face until you had figured out the leverage, and the intent.

From that night on, his irritation began to leak away, replaced by a softer, more dangerous curiosity.

He became a silent observer to your evolution. He watched as you turned into a woman of quiet, steady grace. You didn't socialize with the other dancers much, you didn't giggle in the wings or seek the attention of the stagehands. Instead, you sought solitude.

He would find you in the forgotten corners of the house, tucked into an alcove with a stolen stub of charcoal and a sketchbook. You weren't drawing flowers or the faces of the lead tenors. You were sketching this very house with skill and precision. He watched from the shadows as you painstakingly rendered the geometry of a vaulted arch or the complex pulleys of the fly gallery. You were even attempting to draw a map, one of the world within. You possessed a sense of direction that rivaled his own, navigating the lightless passages with a nonchalance that suggested you felt more comfortable hidden away than you ever did on the stage.

There was a profound, wordless connection in the way you touched the building. You treated the masonry with the respect of a scholar and the intimacy of a friend. Erik found himself moving ahead of you in the dark. He told himself it was merely because he enjoyed the way you drew his architecture, that your sketches were the only honest tribute the Opera Populaire had ever received. But deep down, in the places he refused to look, he knew it was more. He saw the way you lingered in the shadows, the way you seemed to breathe easier when the sun went down. He had a hunch, a nagging vibration in his bones, that you weren't just a girl who liked the dark. You were a creature who had been betrayed by the light, just as he had been.

He didn't know your story. He only knew that for nine years, you had haunted his house without ever making a sound. You were a shadow like him. But to him, you were a constant, comforting presence in the periphery of his isolation.

He was still sitting at his desk when the vibration first traveled through the vents. It wasn't the heavy, clumsy thrum of a stagehand or the shrill, mechanical practice of a soprano. It was a piano. An old one, out-of-tune, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the third-floor storage wing where the dust was thick enough to swallow footsteps.

The melody was a low, mourning thing that didn't belong to the grand stage. It was a funeral rendered in ivory and wood, played with a rhythmic intensity that felt like the tide pulling stones back into the sea. Then, he heard a voice follow the melody. The voice was powerful and raw, the sound of a heart slowly being unmade. It wasn't the airy, flute-like tone the Parisian public craved. It was honey and gravel, deep and visceral, reaching into frequencies that felt like a physical weight against his chest. It spoke of loss and a loneliness so profound it made Erik’s own decades of isolation feel shallow. For the first time in decades, the Phantom of the Opera was paralyzed. He sat in the flickering candlelight, his chest heaving as he realized that the woman he had spent years watching was perhaps not as quiet as he thought. 

Suddenly, the paralysis broke into a frantic, desperate need. He scrambled from his chair, his black cloak billowing behind him as he tore through the secret passages. He needed to find the source. He needed to see for himself if it truly was you who was capable of bleeding so beautifully into the melody. He moved through the walls like the wind, his heart thudding against his ribs with a violence he hadn't felt in years. But by the time he reached the third-floor storage wing, the music had stopped.

The silence that followed was deafening. He stood in the hallway, his gloved hand resting against a cold, splintered doorframe, his breath hitching in his throat. The room was empty. The lid of the piano was closed, and the dust on the floor was undisturbed save for a single set of light footprints leading toward the servants' stairs. The faint, unmistakable scent of vanilla lingered in the air, sweet and grounding amidst the smell of old parchment and wood-rot. He leaned his masked forehead against the door, closing his eyes as a shudder ran through him.

„Y/N“, he whispered to the empty room, the word a ragged vow.

1871

He has not for one moment forgotten. For three hundred and sixty-five days, he wondered if it was you. He had kept his eyes on you with a new, searing intensity. He watched you draw for hours in the silence of the night, your brows furrowed in concentration. He watched you dance, perceiving your almost mechanical perfection in every movement. He watched you endure the grueling rehearsals, your face a mask of stoic indifference while the other dancers wilted under the Ballet Mistress's sharp tongue. He saw the way you tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the same hand that had traced his traps with such fascination, and he felt a pang of something akin to agony.

Did I imagine it all? 

The question began to eat at him by the spring. In the harsh, artificial light of the stage, you looked so remarkably... contained. You were a woman of twenty-five who had spent nearly a decade in his house, yet you never hummed a tune while you stretched. You never whispered a lyric while you sat in the shadows to sketch your maps. He began to wonder if the melody had been a trick of the vents, or a fever dream born of his own crushing loneliness. 

But then, he would catch the scent of vanilla drifting through a secret passage you had just vacated, and the obsession would flare up again, white-hot and demanding.

He began to "test" you, though you never knew it. He would leave a door slightly ajar, or alter the counterweight of a curtain just enough to see if you would notice the shift. Every time, you did. You would pause, your honey-colored eyes narrowing as you analyzed the change, your fingers ghosting over the wood and cloth with that familiar, reverent touch. 

You were brilliant. You were a scavenger of his secrets. But you remained stubbornly, maddeningly silent.

"Sing for me," he would hiss into the empty air of his lair, clutching the arms of his chair until the wood groaned. "Prove to me I am not mad."

By autumn, the tension in his chest had become a physical weight. He found himself sabotaging the other sopranos. A loose screw here, a misplaced prop there. Not out of malice, but out of a desperate, clawing need to hear that song again. Every other melody had paled in comparison.

Exactly one year had passed in which Erik searched for a voice that seemed too honest to exist in a world as plastic as the Opera Populaire.

That night, Erik stopped writing. He stopped composing. He simply waited, for this was his last hope. He became a fixture of the storage wing, a shadow among the broken harps. His eyes, gold and feverish, were fixed on the door. He had been here for six hours. He had become a part of the woodwork, his breathing so shallow it wouldn't have stirred a cobweb.

I am a fool, he thought, the words a bitter, familiar refrain. A madman chasing an illusion.

And then, the door groaned.

You entered. He felt the shift in the room before he even saw you. It was a change in the very pressure of the air. He watched you move into the center of the storage room. For nine years, he had seen you as a functional part of his world. As a wanderer, a map-maker, a clever nuisance, perhaps. But tonight, with the moonlight filtering through the high windows, he truly looked at you. He saw the way the silver light caught the waves of your hair, and the weary intelligence in your honey-colored eyes. You were a sovereign of these hidden rooms. You weren’t magnificent. His heart, which he had long ago decided was merely a pump for his rage, gave a violent, staggering lurch.

When your fingers finally met the keys, the first dissonant chord hit the center of his being. The doubt that had plagued him for a year vanished in a single strike. Erik’s breath hitched in his throat. He knew that chord. He knew that specific, defiant tension between the notes. It was the same architecture he used in his own compositions, the music he thought only he was capable of hearing.

When your voice followed, it was a revelation. You sang with a texture that defied every rule of the Opera. It started as a low, honeyed growl that vibrated in the floorboards beneath Erik’s feet. A dark, visceral voice that felt like it was being pulled from the very earth. And then, you would leap into a soaring, crystalline high note that pierced the rafters. Your head was tilted back, your throat exposed, your entire body a vessel for your song. 

„Wer hält deine Hand… Wenn es dich nach unten zieht?“

He didn't understand the words, but he felt the weight of them as if they were his own. He was paralyzed by reverence. He didn't just hear you, he recognized you. This wasn't just singing, it was a heart bleeding onto the chords. It was the same fire that ran through his own veins, the same refusal to apologize for the darkness. He watched you with wide, shimmering eyes. He had spent his life believing he was the only creature who could transform pain into art. And now, he realized how wrong he was. And that thought was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.

As the final, shivering refrain left your lips, your voice dropped to a gravelly, haunted whisper that seemed to pull the very air out of the room.

“Am Ende bleibe ich doch alleine...  Die Zeit steht still und mir ist kalt.”

The silence that followed was heavy, almost holy. He leaned his masked forehead against the cold wood of the rafters, a single, broken sob dying in his throat. He had spent a year wondering if he was descending into madness, but this was real. You were real. He had found the only person in the world who spoke his language without ever being taught the words.

He knows he should not linger here, watching the lightheaded, dazed smile on your face through the one-way glass of the mirror. It is voyeurism, an intrusion. But he feels pinned down by the weight of the events of the day. His mind, the greatest architect and the cruelest tormentor, begins to replay the evening with the obsessive precision of the master composer he is.

He sees you again as you first appeared: a vision in deep red. The dress that hugged your waist, your heaving chest in that wicked neckline. Then, your red lips - slightly parted, so full, so soft. Then way you looked had been a provocation he wasn't prepared for. 

He had tried so desperately to be good, proper, distant - as much as he could, anyway. To let the lesson be enough sustenance for a starving man.

But then, as his fingers - those wretched, scarred tools of his trade - had slipped, and you had to be kind. And you had to sing with him, your warm and honey-coloured eyes holding his. At the memory of your voices entwining, a broken sob hitches in his chest. A single hot tear tracks a path beneath the edge of his mask, followed quickly by another. He had felt the music vibrate through his very marrow. Your souls had braided together in a way that - if only he wasn’t so bitter - would make him believe in a God. As you had held that final note, soaring above his own baritone, he had felt himself dissolve. In that moment, you were the only thing in his universe.

And then, you moved.

He can still feel the sensation of your delicate hands, tracing the line of his chest and neck. The thought makes him shudder even now, his shoulder racking against the cold stone. He clenches his eyes shut, his hands clawing at the velvet of his own thighs. He can still feel the warmth of your palms, utterly unafraid of the monster they were mapping.

And then, then you had pressed your lips to his.

You kissed him.

He had died and gone to heaven. He had tasted mercy, and the agonizing fear that it was all a hallucination. He had waited for your regret, for the moment you realized your mistake and pulled away. But God, you had only kissed him again.

With a passion that had nearly unstrung him.

For the first time in his life, the Great Architect of the Opera House felt he was losing control, his carefully constructed walls dissolving into ash under your touch. It scared him to his very bones... and yet, it felt destined, more right than any symphony he had ever written. He presses his own fingers to his lips, his breathing coming in shallow, silent hitches. He had dreamt this a thousand times, but this? 

This. Feels. Real.

The scent of your skin, the sweetness of your breath, the way your body had leaned into his. When he had stood there afterward, dazed and lost in the wake of his dream coming true, you had handled him with celestial grace. You led him to the fire, and you kissed him a third time.

Each touch was a piece of evidence, a mounting trial against his own self-loathing. You acted as if you didn't just tolerate his presence, but as if you sought his proximity. You had scooted closer to him, voluntarily. As if he weren't a creature born of the cold and the dark.

But the final blow to his defenses had been finding himself in the sketchbook, in the hidden parts of your wonderful and brillant mind. You had deemed him worthy of art. You had seen the jagged lines of his soul and chosen to capture, and to keep them.

And even then, you had stayed close. To him.

She kissed me. 

She kissed me and she stayed.

He remains there, slumped against the masonry of his secret world, listening to the fading sounds of your movement in the room next to him. He is utterly shaken, a man who has lived his whole life in the shadows suddenly thrust into the beautiful, but blinding sun.

He knows he will not sleep tonight. He cannot. He is terrified that if he closes his eyes, if he allows his consciousness to drift for even a second, the veil will drop. He fears he will wake up in the freezing dark of his solitude and find that it was all imaginary - just another cruel masterpiece composed by his own desperate heart.

________

You wake slowly the next morning, your eyes barely adjusting to the light cast through the heavy velvet curtains. For a moment, you lay still, your eyes drifting to the golden mirror. It stands silent and impenetrable, a far cry from the gateway it had been hours before. Erik isn’t there. 

Just as you sit up, your legs dangling off the side of the bed, a frantic knock at the door pulls you out from the memories of last night. 

"Y/N! Are you decent? I’m coming in!"

Before you could even reach for your robe, Meg bursts into the room, her curls bouncing and her eyes dancing with a manic sort of energy. She is carrying a tray with two small cups, a jug of chocolate and some rolls, but sets it down with such force the porcelain rattles.

“Ohh, today is going to be a day," she says, her voice a hushed squeal. „Not only are there rumors that the great Carlotta is to make her grand return today," Meg begins, her voice dropping as she pours the chocolate, "but also; you have something to tell me." She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, leaning in so close you could smell her flowery perfume. "Well? How did it go?"

The memory of sitting together in front of the hearth, and the devastating softness of his lips, has an unstoppable smile spreads across your face. Meg’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. "Oh! Something did happen! Y/N, you-…“

"WHERE IS SHE? WHERE IS SHE?“

A piercing, glass-shattering shriek from the hallway cuts Meg off, followed immediately by a violent crashing sound of what no doubt is the huge ceramic vase meeting the floorboards. 

The sounds echo through the walls of your dressing room, effectively killing the cozy atmosphere. You let out a long, weary sigh and roll your eyes. While Meg is practically vibrating with the need to see what the fuss is about, you take your time with another deliberate bite of your roll. You move to the mirror, adjusting a few stray locks of hair and pulling your silk robe tighter around you. There is no need to rush, the drama surely is not going anywhere.

"Come on, Y/N!" Meg hisses, her hand white-knuckled on the doorknob.

When you finally step out into the corridor, the air feels different. It is thick with the scent of expensive, cloying perfume - her signature smell. But beneath that, you feel a familiar pull. Erik is here. He must have been watching the situation unfold from the shadows.

In the center of the hallway, a chaotic tableau unfolds. Carlotta stands there, face reddened with rage, flanked by the two managers, who look overwhelmed. Both André and Firmin are clutching pieces of parchment, but it appears the one in Carlotta’s hand seems to be the source of the outrage.

The moment Carlotta spots you and Meg exiting the Prima Donna’s room, her gaze snaps to you, burning with pure, unadulterated hatred. "Ah, the little rat emerges from her hole," Carlotta spits, her voice trembling with a venomous edge. "Dressed in silk she did not earn, occupying a room that is not hers.“

You don’t flinch. In fact, you don’t even give her the satisfaction of reacting at all. Your expression is a mask of professional detachment as you turn your gaze to the managers.

„Good morning Monsieur André, Monsieur Firmin," you say in a steady and remarkably calm voice. „Did something happen?“

Carlotta’s eyes bulge, her chest heaving against the tight constraints of her gown. She lets out a sharp, mocking huff.

"Are you truly this dense?“, she snarls, stepping into your personal space. She waves the parchment in her hand so violently it whistles through the air. "Do not play the innocent with me, cretina!"

You watch her hysterics with a blank expression, then shift your gaze from her reddened face to that of the managers. Monsieur Firmin clears his throat, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else - perhaps even in the middle of a cholera outbreak - right now. He avoids Carlottas eyes, twisting his own note between his fingers.

"Y/N, my dear," he begins, his voice strained and weary. "There have been... several communications this morning. From the Opera Ghost. It appears he has taken a most particular interest in your career." He gestures vaguely to the paper. "He has given clear instructions that you are to remain in the lead.“

Carlotta lets out a sharp, jagged laugh, her chest heaving. "Instructions, Monsieur? He has threatened me!" She snaps the parchment one again, the fibers straining. "He says my days here are numbered! He says I should be prepared for a 'great misfortune' should I attempt to take her place!" She points a trembling, gloved finger at you, her face twisted with a level of disgust that would be comical if it weren't so venomous. "Her! A lanky ballet rat!“

The managers turn to look at you, their eyes wide with a mix of pity and panic. They expect the situation to escalate further. But instead, you remain perfectly still, meeting Carlotta’s rage with a stare so cold it seems to drop the temperature in the hallway by several degrees.

"Signora, you may find comfort in knowing that I never had much of an interest in being Prima Donna.“, you say, your voice carrying an effortless nonchalance. There is an honesty in your tone that even the managers can’t deny; you were not hunting for fame. You were simply there when Carlotta wasn’t. 

„Do you expect us to believe this?“, Carlotta scoffs, her eyes darting around the hall as if looking for someone to witness your „lies“. „This was not the Opera Ghost! It is a ploy. A scheme to keep you in my place while you play the part of the modest little doll.“

You tilt your head slightly, your expression remaining a mask of professional detachment. "And who exactly do you suppose has written these, then?"

Just then, the rhythmic clicking of a cane echoes against the stone floors as Madame Giry appears, the Vicomte de Chagny beside her. Raoul looks sophisticated as per usual, his brow furrowed as he takes in the shattered vase and the hysterical diva.

Carlottas gaze snaps toward the end of the corridor, her face twisting into a predatory smile. "The Vicomte! Your patron, of course!" she bellows. "Tell us, Monsieur, how many nights has she spent in your bed to earn her place? How much are you paying to ruin my career so your lover can keep her stolen crown?"

Beside you, Meg lets out a tiny gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. Raoul freezes, his face flushing a deep crimson. "Signora, watch your tongue! You speak of a lady’s honor!"

You feel an icy draft, a sharp tension in the air. Erik is there, hidden in the architecture of these halls. You can only practically feel his rage at Raoul trying to protect your honor and - above all - the suggestion that Raoul lies with you.

You roll your eyes, the gesture so dismissive it may have been more insulting than a slap. You don't even feel the need to address the accusation; as Meg had gleefully informed you, your blatant refusal of the Vicomte’s advances was the talk of the house.

Raoul looks at you, a flicker of genuine hurt crossing his handsome features before he turns back to Carlotta. His tone is heavy with a sad, reluctant honesty. "I assure you, Signora Carlotta, what you imply is false. Y/N is a remarkable woman, far too principled to be swayed by a title, as she has made quite clear to me on several occasions." The way he says it has you almost pity him, but you remain a statue of cold indifference. "Furthermore," Raoul continues, reaching into his pocket, "I have something else to prove it.“ He hands a small, crisp piece of parchment to Monsieur Firmin The manager reads it aloud, his voice trembling. 

"Vicomte de Chagny, remain distant from Miss Y/L/N. 

Your persistence is a nuisance I will no longer tolerate. 

Should you ignore this demand I shall see myself forced to remove the obstacle you represent."

Carlotta huffs, her chest heaving as her gaze darts from Raoul’s wounded expression to your calm face. She isn't finished. „If it is not the boy, it is him!" she cries, gesturing vaguely toward the shadows. „The Phantom! You’re his pet!“

Your voice turns awfully cold, cutting through her hysterics like a scalpel. "Your fixation on the idea of sleeping with someone to further your… reputation“, you say, looking her up and down „Says more about your character, Signora, than it does about mine."

A collective, sharp gasp ripples through the hallway. André and Firmin look like they’re trying to swallow their own tongues to keep from laughing, while Madame Giry’s lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. Even Raoul looks stunned by the sheer, unadulterated audacity of your words.

Carlotta’s mouth drops open, her face turning a shade of purple that matches her silks. „YOU!" she shrieks. „YOU ARE SCUM! A GUTTER-RAT! A NOBODY!“

You take a single, deliberate step toward her, closing the distance until your face is inches from hers. You hold her gaze, your eyes hard and unforgiving. "I would much prefer to be nobody," you retort, your voice a low, dangerous hum, "than someone as shallow, bitter, and vain as yourself."

"YOU DARE-...“ Carlotta starts, her hand rising as if to strike.

"I DAMN SURE DARE.“ you cut her off, your posture shifting, ready to knock her out before her hand would even touch you. You can almost feel Erik’s approval vibrating through the floorboards.

Just then, the sharp, authoritative thud of a cane hits the floor. "There is another note.“, Madame Giry says, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. The hallway falls into a sudden silence as everyone turns to her. With a face like carved stone, she reaches into her pocket and hands a fresh, wax-sealed letter to Monsieur Firmin.

The managers exchange a look of pure terror. Firmin breaks the seal and again reads aloud:

„Gentlemen, 

I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theatre is to be run. 

You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance. 

La Carlotta has returned, yet I am anxious for Miss Y/L/Ns career to progress. 

In the new production of Il Muto, you will therefore cast Carlotta as the page boy. 

And keep Miss Y/L/N in the role of Countess. The role which Miss Y/L/N plays calls for charm and appeal. 

The role of the page boy is silent which makes my casting, in a word, ideal. 

I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five, which will be kept empty for me. 

Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. 

I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant, 

O.G.“

Carlotta’s face, previously purple, has gone a mottled white. The idea of playing a silent page role is a statement that transcends insult. She snaps her gaze to the managers, her eyes wide and pleading. "You would not," she whispers, her voice cracking. "You would not do this to me? Tell me you are not listening to him! Tell me the lead is mine!"

André and Firmin exchange a look of pure helplessness. They are caught between the wrath of a very rich diva - who can afford very good attorneys - and the threat of a "disaster beyond imagination“. Slowly, they both turn their heads to look at you. They are looking for a way out. They are looking for you to be the bigger person so they don't have to be the ones this decision will fall back to.

You meet Firmin’s gaze, your expression one of profound disappointment. You see the cowardice in the set of his jaw, the way he’s practically begging you to step down. You let out a long, slow sigh. "Very well," you say, turning your gaze to Carlotta. Your voice is calm, devoid of the heat that is currently radiating from her. "If you wish to play the Countess in spite of a these warnings, then by all means; take the role. But mark my words, Signora: You are responsible for whatever consequences follow."

Carlotta doesn't even hear the warning. The moment you concede, her vanity rushes back in like a flood. "It is settled then!" she cries, her chest puffing out. She points a trembling finger at the door to the Prima Donna’s suite. "Now, get your things out of my room before I have the stagehands throw them into the Seine!"

You don't give her the satisfaction of a response. You simply turn and walk to do just that. Raoul and Meg both move to follow you, their faces tight with concern, but the sharp clack of Madame Giry’s cane stops them in their tracks. "Meg Giry, are you a dancer?“, she says, „Then go practice.“ Her voice holds no room for arguments, though Meg throws a worried glance back over her shoulder at you.

Inside the room, you snatch up your sketchbook along with the red dress you had draped over the settee. Finally, you reach for Erik’s rose. When you step back into the corridor, Carlotta is waiting like a vulture. You hand her the key without a word. She snatches it from your palm with a sneer and slams the door shut with a violent bang that echoes through the hall.

Only Raoul remains. He stands there, his hands twitching as if he wants to reach out and carry your belongings for you, but he thinks better of it. He knows you well enough by now to know that you would refuse the help.

"Y/N," he begins, his voice soft and genuinely pained. "I am truly sorry. This is... it is a travesty. You earned that role. To let her bully you into the shadows again is not fair." You let out another sigh, but this one is softer. Despite his persistence, Raoul is a kind man, and his defense of you earlier hadn't gone unnoticed. "There is no need to apologize, Raoul.“, you say, looking him in the eye. "Thank you for standing up for me. Even after... everything."

Raoul nods, a flicker of something - hope, perhaps, or lingering hurt - shining in his eyes. But then his gaze drops. He sees the rose in your hand, the deep, blood-red bloom. He wonders if it is his. He has made his interest in you very clear by now, Raoul thinks. But he wonders what that truly means for you. Is he controlling you? Are you his prisoner, somehow? 

This „triumph“ feels a pleasant distance away as you stand at the barre in the rehearsal hall, the familiar scent of rosin and sweat around you. Your muscles ache with a pleasant heat, a reminder that despite the silk and the applause, you are still a creature of discipline.

Meg scampers over during a break, her eyes bright and searching. "You look... different today, Y/N," she whispers, leaning against the barre. "I mean, I knew you’d look rested, the silk sheets must agree with you, but there's a light in your eyes I haven't seen. You look genuinely happy. Is it just the premiere, or did the managers finally give you a decent contract?" You laugh a little, but avoid the true source of your giddiness. „Oh, no they didn’t.“, you quip, and add „But they did give me a more than decent breakfast. That’s a start.“ The break ends soon after, and the rest of the rhearsal goes by smoothly.

As the sun dips below the Parisian skyline and the theater begins to empty, you return to your dressing room. You strip off your practice clothes, your heart thrumming with an expectant rhythm. You wash the sweat of the day away and reach for a dress of deep forest green. It is simple but elegant, the way the light catches the fabric making the color feel alive. Standing before the vanity, you find yourself lingering over your reflection. You apply a subtle touch of rouge and darken your lashes. You aren't getting ready for a performance, you are preparing to step into a world only you are allowed to see. You check your appearance one last time before slipping out into the shadows.

The walk to the third cellar is a familiar path, but tonight it feels different. You move past the costume shop and the paint frames, until you reach the quiet, dusty alcove. The shadows are deep, swallowed by the heavy stone pillars. You can’t see him yet, but you know he is there. With a practiced motion, you reach into the dark crevice behind a stone pillar and retrieve your leather-bound sketchbook. You tuck it under your arm, a silent signal that you aren't just here to listen, but to learn. 

Erik emerges - a subtle peeling away of one shadow from another. He had been standing perfectly still. He had hoped - ached, even - for you to come, but his cynical mind had already prepared a dozen reasons for your absence. To see you actually standing there sends his heart hammering with a violence he finds humiliating. The reality of your presence strikes him with a force he wasn't prepared for. 

You step closer to him, into the faint amber glow of a nearby wall sconce, letting him take in the sight of you. His gaze sweeps over the forest green dress, the way the color sets off the warmth of your skin. He notices how the dark of your lashes contrasts the warm honey in your eyes. He sees the sketchbook tucked under your arm. The effort you must have made to present yourself to him is overwhelming to him. It is a gesture of respect he doesn't quite know how to categorize. 

He steps forward, his movements fluid but lacking their predatory edge. He adjusts his cuff with a hand that trembles almost imperceptibly, desperate to hide the impact you have on him. "You are punctual," he says, his voice a low, disciplined baritone. He keeps a respectful distance, though the intensity of his gaze is like a physical touch. "I half-expected the comforts of the Prima Donna’s suite to have dulled your appetite for the damp air of the cellars." He clears his throat, his eloquence returning slowly as he tries to regain his footing against the sheer impact of your appearance. „However.. I am glad to discover that your dedication to the art is as steadfast as it is.“

He doesn't offer his hand. He seems wary of the proximity, as if a single touch might shatter the fragile professionalism he is trying to maintain. Instead, he turns, and as he begins to speak again, his voice takes on a different quality. An otherworldly resonance that bypasses the ears and vibrates directly in the chest. It is a siren’s call, a low-frequency command designed to lead and to soothe.

You feel the weight of it, a gentle but insistent tug at your senses, tempting you to stop thinking and simply follow. You notice what he is doing immediately, and you let him. You let the sound wash over you, fully aware that you walking beside him would not require such trickery.

The walk from the third cellar onwards is a descent in profound silence. You walk willingly, your pace matching his, showing no hesitation as the faint light of the upper world dies away. You don't cling to the walls or stumble. As you descend, you find yourself slowing down, your fingers trailing over masonry that no audience member will ever see. You pause at a landing where the stairs divide into three separate, shadowed paths, each vanishing into the gloom, marvelling at the sheer scale of the architecture. "I’ve spent years wandering this house," you whisper, looking up at a vaulted archway reinforced with iron. "I thought I knew its secrets. But I’ve only just scratched the surface, haven't I?"

Erik stands a step below you, the torchlight casting long, flickering shadows that dance against the porcelain of his mask. He watches the way your fingers linger on the damp stone, noting the absolute lack of a tremor in your hand. He realizes then, with a crushing suddenness, that the command he’s been weaving around you since the third cellar hasn't been leading you at all. You knew exactly what he was doing, and you allowed it. You matched his pace not because you were compelled, but because you chose to.

His power, the very thing he uses to keep the world at his feet if needed, has been rendered useless by your autonomy. He looks into your eyes, and lets out a long, shuddering sigh. "You have ventured further than anyone else ever dared," he says. His voice is stripped of its artificial resonance. "You have done so for years..." He trails off, his head bowing slightly. "I should have known better.“ You feel the physical sensation of his influence washing away. The air suddenly feels colder, and he is left as a man caught in an act of insecurity. He looks up at you, a moment of naked vulnerability flickering in his gaze. "Forgive me," he whispers, the words sounding heavy and unfamiliar on his tongue. He hesitates, his hand tightening on the torch. "Would you... would you still come? Knowing that I would stoop to such artifice?" You look down at him, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. You don't lecture him. You don’t recoil. Instead, your reaction is far more casual than he would have anticipated.

"If I truly minded, or if I mistrusted you, I could have resisted," you say, your voice grounded and practical. „But you’re correct, Erik. You didn't need the trickery. I’ve been looking forward to the lesson all day." He stands lost in the center of his own labyrinth, looking at a woman who saw through his tricks and simply ignored them because she wanted to be there. Disbelief wars with a surging, desperate gratitude in his chest.

"You are... inconstant to every rule of human nature I have ever observed," he murmurs. His tone is not at all demeaning, quite the opposite. He turns to lead you further down, but he stops again, his curiosity overriding his caution. "Why?" he asks, gazing at the stairs before you both. As the word leaves his lips, he doesn’t even know which „why?“ to begin with. He turns to you again. "Why are you... not scared?" His disbelief is laced in every word he speaks. You look at him, your gaze steady in the flickering light. From where you stand - two steps above him one the staircase - you realize you are almost at eye level with him. Your voice turns quiet, practical. „There was a time in my life where I couldn't have afforded to be scared of the dark," you pause for a second, „So I got comfortable in it instead.“ You take a step down, standing closer to him. He stops breathing for a second, watching the light of his torch dance in your eyes. "I’ve lived in this house for almost half my life. I know the managers who - kind as they may be - would sell anyone if it brought enough francs, the divas who would step over a dead body if it meant being in the spotlight. That’s most of the company upstairs." You pause, tilting your head slightly, looking up at him. "But you? The only things I truly know of you are good things. You're the man who plays beautiful melodies at night, the one who corrected my map so I wouldn't get lost… or maybe worse?“, you huff a little at that, „And you're the man who went to the trouble of removing every thorn from a rose before giving it to me." His eyes are full of an emotion you can’t name. You give him a small smile before looking down the long, dark passage ahead. "So… I‘d daresay this path is the preferable choice.“

His eyes widen slightly. The hand holding the torch trembles, the orange flame dancing wildly against the stone. You didn’t call him a Ghost, a Phantom or a monster. You called him a man. And not only that. You even said to walk down beside him is a path worth choosing. You are stripping away the legend he spent decades building, leaving him utterly defenseless. 

"You are a strange, impossible creature," he whispers after a while. You just look at him for a moment. Then, you arch your brow with a sharp, playful challenge. "Says the man who lives in the walls," you retort, and grin at him. Erik stands frozen, his chest heaving under his cloak. Then, a sound breaks from him: A sharp, huffing noise that evolves into a dry, rusty laugh. It’s a sound that hasn't been used in years. It sounds unpracticed, but it carries a genuine warmth. He is staggered by your audacity, by the way you took his mystery and threw it back at him like a shared joke.

"Indeed," he says, the laugh still trailing in his voice as he regains his composure. He turns and continues walking, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. 

The passage finally opens into a vast, subterranean grotto. The ceiling is lost to the darkness above, and the ground simply vanishes into a lake so still it looks like polished obsidian. The only sound is the rhythmic, dripping of water from a distant stalactite.

Erik stops at the edge of a small stone quay. He turns to you, and find the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. It smoothes the harsh, angular tension of his jaw. It makes him look like the man who might have been, had the world been kinder. "The 'man in the walls' has a boat waiting, Mademoiselle," he says softly, eliciting a soft laugh from you. He steps into the shallow-bottomed craft with fluid grace. He turns and holds out his hand to you.

You smile at him and place your hand in his. His skin is cool and firm, and his grip steady despite a slight tremor. As your fingers curl around his palm, the air between you feels charged. For a long, suspended heartbeat, you don't pull away, and neither does he. You both simply stand there, connected by the simple gesture. It is a moment that feels exactly right. He breaks the contact a moment too late for it to be professional, his hand retreating into his cloak.

You step into the boat, the wood groaning softly under your weight. You note the slight flush on his cheek as he takes up the long oar. With a single, powerful stroke, you glide away from the quay. You look around, marveling at the way the light catches the damp glitter of the cavern walls. Your gaze keeps drifting back to Erik. The way he moves tells you that he has spent years navigating these currents. 

Ahead, a constellation of flickering lights appears on the horizon. Hundreds of candles float in the dark on iron sconces, reflecting off the water like fallen stars. "We are nearly there," he murmurs, his eyes finally meeting yours.

The boat bumps gently against the stone quay, the hollow sound echoing into the vastness of the cavern. He steps out first, his movements fluid despite the heavy layers of his cloak. As he reaches back to take your hand, you feel the tremor in his grip again, a crack in his composure. He helps you onto the landing, then he steps aside with a stiff, courtly grace. "This," he mumbles, "is where the music lives."

You step onto the dry stone, and the world above ceases to exist. He begins to move deeper into the lair, and you follow him. The flickering candlelight reveals the true scale of it as you walk. It is a cathedral of intellect, a subterranean monument of a man who mastered every art because the world had denied him everything else.

To your left, a massive pipe organ rises like a forest of silver trees, its manuals worn smooth by decades of his touch. Beside it sits a a violin with intricate, hand-carved rims. Further in, the space opens into a vast, and rather versatile workshop. A large wooden desk is the centerpiece, drowning under a sea of parchment. You see fine-scripted musical scores there, next to blueprints of the Opera House itself, marked with red ink where secret passages lay. A your eyes wander further they see meticulously crafted miniature models of the Opera Populaire's sets. Tiny, hand-carved figures stand frozen in rehearsal.

The walls around you are not all bare stone, some of them are lined with thousands of books. You recognize the dark, gilded spines of Poe, the lyricism of Byron and Shelley, and heavy, leather-bound volumes on the history of mechanics and masonry. In a draped alcove toward the back, you catch a glimpse of a surprisingly grand bed. It is draped in deep crimson velvet, its softness and color quite a contrast against the stone walls. 

And there, standing in the shadows near a tall mirror, is a dressmaker’s mannequin. It wears a half-finished gown of ivory silk, the bodice pinned with such surgical precision that it looks like a work of architecture rather than fashion.

You stop, turning a slow circle in the center of it all. The decades of silent labor surround you. "You live... here?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper, yet it carries perfectly in the acoustic perfection of the grotto.

He stands near the organ, his silhouette stark against the glow of a hundred candles. He looks at the room, then back at you, the gold of his eyes unblinking. "It has been my home for longer than I care to remember," he says, his voice dropping into a somber, hollow register. You find yourself wondering just how many years he spent alone down here, but decide not to press on the matter for now. 

He stands by the dark mahogany of the console, his fingers trailing along the edge of the organ’s manual. The somber weight of his earlier words remains, but it is now layered with something else. His gaze finally lifts to yours. He takes a few deliberate steps toward you, his movements carrying that  grace effortlessly. He doesn't look at you as a student to be molded, but as a masterpiece he has finally been permitted to study.

"When I first heard you in that storage room," he begins, his voice dropping into a rich, heartfelt resonance, "I found myself confronted by something I had deemed impossible. You possess the range of a siren and the grit of one who has looked at the world without the filter of privilege. The way you sing is a subversion of every hollow rule this house pretends to worship."

You feel heat rush to your cheeks at his words. You find yourself standing a little taller, feeling a sharp desire to prove him right. He stops, his head tilting as he studies your perfect, disciplined posture.

"Your voice is a magnificent raw stone," he continues, his tone intense. "It possesses a weight and a color that the fools upstairs could never comprehend. My intent is not to alter the essence of what you are, but to foster it into an instrument of absolute, undeniable authority. I do not want to change your music, I want to give you the lungs to sustain it."

His expression turns strict, though his eyes flash with a suppressed adoration that he can't quite mask.

„You are a creature of the ballet," he notes, his tone shifting to the clinical precision of a scientist. "You have spent your life training your body to be silent, to tighten the core until the air is trapped. To dance is to defy gravity; to sing is to harness it."

He gestures for you to stand in the center of the room. His passion for the craft fills the space with an electric energy.

"We begin with the foundation: Appoggio," he explains, the concept rolling off his tongue with the casual ease of a man being asked the date. "It is the art of 'leaning.' The world thinks singing happens in the throat. It does not. It happens in the expansion of the ribs, in the steady, controlled release of the diaphragm. You must learn to trust your body to support the weight of the sound." He gestures toward your midsection. "I want you to inhale as if you are breathing in the scent of the lake; slow, deep, and without a sound. If I hear the air entering your throat, you have already failed the note."

You close your eyes, shutting out the flickering candles to focus entirely on the mechanics of your own ribs. You draw in a breath, tasting the cool, damp air of the grotto. At first, you feel your shoulders trying to creep up, your stomach staying flat. You feel a flicker of frustration, but his unyielding focus pulls you back. You want to match his brilliance with your discipline.

He watches you with a focused, almost breathless enthusiasm as you attempt to expand your breath into your lower ribs. "Lower," he commands, his voice a low vibration. "Do not lift your shoulders. You are a dancer—you know how to control your body. Now, I require you to apply that same exquisite discipline to the way you breathe. Draw the air deep, as if you are anchoring yourself to the very earth."

On the third attempt, something clicks. You feel your lower ribs flare outward while your shoulders remain perfectly still. It feels powerful, as if you are claiming the space inside your own chest. A spark of excitement flares in you. You open your eyes to find him looking at you. A small, triumphant smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. But it is no match to the sheer, unadulterated joy in his eyes at your success.

The first three breaths are merely the breaking of the ground. For the next two hours, the lair is filled not with songs, but with the raw labor of construction. Erik is relentless. He moves around you like a dark moon, his voice a constant, low-frequency hum of corrections and observations.

He transitions from simple breathing to vowel placement, explaining the physics of the ring he heard in your voice with a nonchalant brilliance that makes the most complex acoustic theories sound like common sense. You spend a grueling hour on the single vowel a, while your body provides the grounded support of the Appoggio.

Every time you hit a note with that particular, crystalline edge of your voice, he doesn't clap. He simply grows still, his eyes widening with a predatory kind of joy. He is a man who has finally found a student whose discipline matches his own obsession, and the enthusiasm he tries to suppress begins to bleed through in the way his voice warms when he says, "Again. Precisely like that."

As the candles begin to burn lower, a comfortable, heavy exhaustion settles over your limbs. You are physically spent in a way that feels rewarding. 

"May I sit for a moment?" you ask softly, gesturing towards his desk. "I’d like to make some notes while the feeling of the placement is still fresh." Erik blinks, momentarily stunned by the request. He inclines his head with an almost startled courtesy. "Of course.“ 

You take a seat in the heavy velvet chair. You open your sketchbook to the very back, where the empty pages wait. You look at the charcoal in your hand, then back at the desk, spotting an elegant, hand-carved quill resting in a silver inkwell.

"May I use your pen?" you ask, tilting your head slightly. "It feels more fitting than charcoal."

Erik nods and moves behind you. He watches as you dip the quill into the ink and begin to writ with practiced, efficient strokes. You summarize the night’s work: the mechanics of the diaphragm, the expansion of the lower ribs, the specific way he described the resonance. He stands perfectly still, his gaze fixed on the movement of your hand across the paper. To see you—young, beautiful, and possessed of a frighteningly sharp intellect—treating his technical observations as a serious academic discipline... it disarms him completely. He has spent a lifetime in isolation, only to find that you share his obsessive devotion to the "how" of the music. There is a profound, quiet flattery in his expression. It is the realization that you aren't just a voice he’s coaching, but a mind that matches his own.

"You are documenting the science of it," he murmurs, his voice carrying a rare, fragile warmth.

"I don't intend to let a single word of this go to waste," you reply in a distracted tone, finishing your last line and closing the book. You stand up, and for a moment, the silence between you is bittersweet. You can feel his reluctance to let the evening end, the way he lingers near the desk as if trying to find a reason to keep the conversation going.

"When will we continue?" you ask, your voice full of genuine, bright enthusiasm. "I feel like I’ve only just begun to understand the foundation." The question catches him off guard. He is so used to people fearing his presence that your eagerness to return is overwhelming. A small warm smile touches his lips, which he quickly tries to mask with his usual disciplined composure.

"Not tomorrow," he says, "You have a performance tomorrow evening. The stage demands your full strength, and I will not have you fatigued for the sake of a lesson." You open your mouth to protest, a spark of defiance lighting up your eyes: You feel perfectly capable of doing both. But Erik raises a hand, his smile widening just a fraction as he stops you. It is a look of firm authority mixed with a deep, private adoration.

„Bloody lovely“, you reply dryly, taking a bite of the brioche. Meg giggles, leaning closer, her eyes dancing with mischief. „Speaking of which… how did you celebrate that ethereal performance of yours? Did you spend the night... 'reading' again?" She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. You feel a sudden heat in your cheeks, rolling your eyes playfully. "Good heavens, Meg!" you hiss, shooting her a glare. "It is our day off," you say firmly, trying to steer the conversation back to safety. "No talk of performances, rehearsals, and the daily life of the Opera.“

„Quite right.“, Meg agrees, and throws her hands up in mock surrender „If I have to look at another tutu, or hear a single bar of Gounod, I shall throw myself into the Seine.  So - if you do not have plans with your dashing baritone already - we are going to go into town, we are finding a café that doesn't smell like old velvet, and we are going to forget the stage exists." You turn a shade of red that rivals the rose on your vanity, letting out a startled chuckle. „Alright, alright, let’s go.“, you say, getting out of bed to pick a modest day-dress of light yellow silk.

Erik freezes. The phrase dashing baritone echoes in his mind, distorted and cruel. Not  even just a dashing baritone. Your dashing baritone. „Your" implies possession. It implies a history. It implies a man who walks in the sun, a man whose face is not a nightmare, a man who has earned the right to be called "dashing." Eriks mind collapses into a black hole of agonizing jealousy. He thinks of every male singer in the company, every wealthy patron with a deep voice who might have approached you behind his back. How? he wonders, his hands clenching into claws against the stone. When did she see him? Were there rehearsals I did not watch? Was it in the streets of Paris she knows so well? Was the touch of your hand merely a pitying gesture while you dreamed of another?

As you and Meg leave the room, Erik retreats like a wounded animal into the lightless depths of the cellars. He finds himself in the dark of his workshop. In a sudden and swift motion, his hands sweep across a workbench, sending architectural tools and jars of ink crashing to the floor. He collapses into his chair, holding his hands over his ears as the voice in his head torments him. "Dashing," he snarls to the empty room, the word a bitter rasp. He realizes that as long as you are out there, in the city, he is utterly powerless. He cannot protect you, he cannot watch you, and he certainly cannot compete with a "dashing" man who can buy you a coffee in the midday sun. The hope you gave him has turned into a weapon he is wielding against himself.

As you walk through the bustling streets of the Quartier de l'Opéra, you notice the way heads turn. It isn't the crude gawking you’d feared, but a respectful, curious hum. Since your performances, Paris has given you a moniker — the „Nightingale“. The woman who has appeared out of the chorus with the voice of an angel, giving the Opera Populaire a soul it never had before.

"Look at them," Meg whispers, nudging you as a group of young dandies tip their hats as you pass. "How does it feel, Y/N? To be the talk of Paris?"

"It feels... strange," you admit, pulling your shawl a bit tighter despite the warmth. You remember a time, not that long ago, when you could walk these same streets and be utterly invisible. "To go from being someone people look through to this... i don’t know, Meg. I have never aimed for the limelight."

"Perhaps not," Meg says, linking her arm firmly with yours. "But the limelight found you anyway. And honestly? It’s about time. You’ve spent long enough in the shadows."

The afternoon is spent in a whirlwind of shops. Meg is in her element, picking out ribbons, smelling expensive pomades, and eventually buying a pair of delicate gloves that she insists are a "necessity for a prima donna's best friend." Finally, she drags you into a small, high-end boutique tucked away from the main thoroughfare. "You have all this new coin, Y/N, and you’re still dressing like a chorus girl on your day off," Meg chides, pulling a dress from a mahogany rack. "Look at this. Try it on. For me?" It is a crimson dress, the color of the rose Erik gave you. The fabric is high-quality blend that drapes beautifully, featuring a square neckline that is elegant without being scandalous. The color is a contrast to your fair skin and dark waves of hair. You emerge from the dressing room. "Oh, Y/N," Meg breathes, her usual mischief replaced by genuine awe. "You look wonderful. You have to get it. Think of it as a gift to yourself for surviving Hannibal." You look at your reflection, and for a second, you think of the lessons to come - the way the candlelight will dance over the fabric, and the way Erik’s eyes will widen when he sees that you chose his color to wear. "I’ll take it," you say softly, a small, secret smile playing on your lips.

You eventually steer Meg away from the main boulevards and into a quiet, narrow street in the Marais, where the shops are older and smell of cedar and frankly, a bit of dust. You stop in front of a master bookbinder’s atelier. 

Inside, the walls are lined with parchment and hides of every texture. You spend a long time looking before your eyes settle on a folder of midnight-black leather. It is magnificent. The grain is supple yet sturdy, and the corners are reinforced with ornate silver flourishes that twist like ivy. It makes you think of him immediately. "What on earth is that for?" Meg asks, peering over your shoulder as you run your fingers over the cool, embossed surface. "A bit somber for a diary, isn't it?"

"It is …a gift," you say, your voice soft.“

A small, knowing "O" forms on her lips, and she leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "A gift for a certain tutor?" she repeats, her tone playful. 

"That madman“, you say with a playful affection, „keeps stacks full of his scores all over the place. Whereas his music… it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before," you confess, your gaze drifting to the window. "It’s raw, and above all it is honest. When he plays, it’s as if the world finally stops pretending and just… breathes. His compositions certainly deserve a proper home.“ Meg leans against the counter, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face. "Oh, Y/N," she breathes, shaking her head. "Listen to yourself."

"Listen to what?"

"To the woman who did not even deem the Vicomte a man interesting enough practically glowing. You sound like you’re completely under your tutors spell. You’ve completely forgotten to be cynical." You roll your eyes at her, a bemused huff escaping your lips. „I’m just… He’s just… extraordinarily talented.“

„Talent alone doesn't make a woman’s voice go all velvet like that," Meg whispers, her eyes twinkling, yet she leaves the topic alone after. A slow, undeniable heat begins to climb your cheeks as you ponder her words. You don't deny it. You can't. As you clutch the folder to your chest, you are aware you aren't just buying a gift for a teacher. You are buying a home for a part of his soul, one that you are starting to care for more than you intended to.

In the late afternoon you sit at a café, the nearby river glistening in the afternoon sun. "You’re doing it again," Meg says, pointing her fork at you. "That dreamy, faraway look.“ "I’m just enjoying the coffee, Meg," you reply, though you can almost taste the lie on your tongue. "Rubbish." Meg leans in, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "It’s him, isn't it?“ You sip your coffee, trying to keep your expression neutral.

„You’re one to talk,“ you quip after a short moment. „I have heard rumors, Meg Giry, that you’ve been rather distracted yourself. Something about a gentleman from the celebrations?" Meg’s cheeks instantly flood with a rosy hue. She tries to look indignant, but a fawning smile breaks through. "Oh, hush! It’s far too soon to say anything... but he has the most remarkable eyes, Y/N. Blue as the sky, and his hair! It’s unruly, like he’s just come in from a storm. He even laughed at my jokes.“ You watch her, a soft smile tugging at your lips. It is a relief to see her so happy, even as you begin to feel the pull of the shadows calling you back.

On the walk back to the Opera Populaire the sun begins to dip, casting long shadows across the stone facades. As the massive silhouette of the Opera House looms over the street, you feel a mixture of comfort and excitement. You part ways with Meg at the stage door, promising to see her for morning rehearsals. You retreat to your room with your arms full of paper bags, expecting to feel that familiar, prickling sensation of being watched.

But as you click the door shut, the room is… silent. The air is still. The silvered glass of the mirror is just a mirror. You set the bags down on your vanity, your eyes immediately wandering to the rose. You wonder what he is doing for a brief moment, then you ponder your options. You could wait for him to show, but your heart is too restless. You could trigger the latch and descend to his lair, but the thought of wading through the water of the lake, uninvited at that, feels neither right nor particularly appealing. Then, another idea forms. You grab a piece of parchment from your desk and scribble a few words in your neatest hand. Then, you make your way through the winding corridors toward the main stage.

Deep beneath the stage, the lair is cold, and feels oppressively empty. Erik sits at his desk, the scratch of his quill erratic and sharp. Since you left the building, he tried to focus on composing, but the notes fall apart like ashes. His mind is a frantic carousel of fears. Where are you? Are you sitting in a park? At a café, surrounded by admirers? Are you with Meg… or with that dashing baritone? The thought of another man being close to you, perhaps even touching you, makes the inkwell rattle as he slams his fist onto the mahogany. He fears the worst: That the sun will remind you of how much you belong to the world above, and how little you belong… here.

But then, a sound - a melody even - travels down the vents. It is a a shimmering cascade of notes played on the grand piano on the main stage, which should be empty on a day like today. Erik rises, his cloak swirling around him like a storm cloud. He moves briskly to the rafters above the stage. He is looking down from the dizzying heights of the fly gallery to the stage. And indeed, there you are.

You sit at the piano, your fingers moving with a grace that makes Erik’s breath catch in his throat. He had seen and heard you play the broken piano in the storage room before, but hearing what melodies you are able to carve out of a fully functioning instrument once again reminds him of how your musical talents almost rival his own. He is so captivated by the sight of you, so consumed by the way the light catches your hair, that every thought he had before, every bit of his surroundings, simply everything else seems to fade. The last note is played, echoes, and then there is silence. To his surprise you tilt your head up, your eyes searching the dark, tangled heights of the scenery. You simply look, a knowing, gentle expression on your face, as if you can see him through the layers of shadow. Only then he notices the small scrap of paper you have wedged exactly where he stands, exactly where he had severed the rope of the backdrop that almost crushed Carlotta. His fingers tremble as he reaches for the note.

Meet me in my room.

A sudden, stifling heat floods his chest and cheeks. You have spent your day in the most beautiful city in the world, surrounded by friends and admirers and the light of the sun, and your first thought upon returning… is to call for him? He does not have time to even begin to comprehend it, as a voice pulls him out of his thoughts.

"Well, well. If it isn't our Nightingale, out past her bedtime." The voice is thick, carrying the scent of cheap whiskey. Joseph Buquet emerges from the wings, his face flushed and his gait unsteady. He sneers at you, his eyes traveling over you with a lecherous, sluggish intent. Up in the rafters, Erik’s hands grip the iron railing so hard the metal groans. "A pretty little thing like you shouldn't be wandering the stage alone," he slurs, stepping into your space. "Don't you know the Opera Ghost likes to snatch up girls? He’ll take you down to the cellar and turn you into a doll." You raise an eyebrow at him, not impressed with his antics. „The Opera Ghost would certainly be more pleasant company than the one I have right now,“ you say, your voice ringing with a cold, sharp disdain. Erik's eyes, which had burned with a murderous, incandescent rage, widen at your boldness, at the hidden praise in your words. Joseph reaches out then, gripping your wrist, his dirty fingers digging into your skin. "Don't be like that, sweetheart. Let me lead you back to your dressing room. You can show me how talented that mouth of yours really is…“ Erik is less than a breath away from dropping the counterweights, from ending the life of the drunkard who dares to breathe the same air as you. But then, in a flash of motion that leaves even him stunned, you grab Joseph’s thumb, twisting his hand with a sickeningly efficient snap of leverage, and swing him around. In one fluid move, you have him stumble to the ground before you, arm pinned behind his back, sending him pressed face down on the dusty floorboards.

"This 'pretty little thing' knows how to defend herself from disgusting, drunken pigs such as yourself,“ you hiss near his ear, your voice low and dangerous. "I suggest you keep your distance.“ Erik stares down at you, his rage momentarily replaced by breathless awe. He has seen your softness, your empathy, and your genius. He has seen your boldness and the fire inside you, too, but never like this. You are no naive girl to be protected, you are a force of nature. He sees you getting up, smoothing your skirts and walking away as if nothing happened, leaving Joseph a mumbling mess on the floor.

When you reach your dressing room, the air is still humming with the confidence you carry, having easily pinned Joseph down. The mirror clicks the moment the lock of your door slides into place. Erik steps out with long, deliberate strides, his expression a mix of fury and concern as his eyes scan your form. He doesn't say a word as he carefully reaches for your hand, his touch gentle but firm as he turns your wrist over in the light. He traces the faint, red marks left by Buquet’s fingers with the tip of his thumb, his jaw set in a hard, dangerous line. "That man is a parasite," he rasps, his voice vibrating with a dark resonance. "I should have let the rope find him years ago." He looks up at you, wonder and awe replacing the anger in his eyes. "But you…“, a low chuckle escapes him. „The way you handled that cur. The fire inside you burns brighter than I ever imagined.“

You bite the inside corner of your lip, trying to fight the smile wanting to spread. The adoration in his tone is so real, so palpable. Adoration for a side of you that you aren’t entirely proud of, at that. You look at him, feeling his hand still holding yours. For a heartbeat, the world seems to shrink until there is only the warmth of his touch and the rhythmic thrum of your heart against his skin. He leans in just a fraction, the scent of you - the soft, comforting sweetness of vanilla mingled with the sharp, lingering tang of roasted coffee - hits him like a physical blow. It is the smell the world outside. It is a reminder that you were gone.

Erik’s hand jerks away as if he’s been burned. He draws back sharply, his cloak whipping around him as he retreats toward the shadows near the window, turning his back to the room. "The Nightingale returns to her cage," he rasps, his voice dripping with a bitterness that stings. He stares out at the sliver of evening sky visible through the glass, his shoulders tense. "Tell me, Mademoiselle. Was the coffee sweet? Was the company... dashing enough to make you forget this place?" 

To make you forget me? he thinks, but does not dare ask. 

And once again, you see right through him. The jealousy is almost palpable, and the raw pain beneath it makes your heart ache. He must have spent the last hours questioning how you feel about him, and came to the conclusion that he means nothing more than a mere placeholder to you, if anything. Yet the irony of it all, that he was spiraling over a man who doesn't even exist - over himself, really - becomes clear to you. A blush creeps up your neck, closely followed by a hearty, genuine laugh that bubbles up before you can stop it. "A truly impossible question," you sheepishly admit, your voice light with amusement. "Contradictory, even." Contradictory? Erik’s silhouette stiffens, his brows furrowing. „You know, Erik," you say, taking a step towards him and the vanity where your bags stand. "For a genius, you can be rather daft sometimes." Erik blinks, taken aback. He was prepared for you to get defensive, for a cold dismissal, or even pity. What he was not prepared for was an insult so casually thrown at him. He slowly turns his head, his visible eye widening in genuine, stunned silence. He has been called many things in his life by many people. But no one in his entire life had ever dared call him daft. "Daft?" he finally repeats, the word sounding hollow and confused in his gravelly voice. 

You take another step towards him, amusement twinkling in your eyes. „I’m afraid so. if you truly think if I have forgotten about you.“, you answer firmly, looking him in the eye.“ A mixture of shame mingled with a sweet relief creeps us his neck, staining his cheeks a stark red. He realizes how gracefully you bypass his biting words, how you do not shame him for how he acts. You do not even bother to fight his anger; you simply reach through the cold distance he produces to mend the terrified heart underneath. "In fact," you say, your voice a steady gentle anchor in his storm of self-loathing, "the reason I called you here might prove just that, if my word is not enough."

You reach for the blue bag on the vanity. Erik’s eyes follow your every movement, looking to some degree perplexed, still. His fingers, still hidden in the folds of his cloak, twitch in time with the rustle of the paper. You bite the inside corner of your lip, a flurry of nerves dancing in your stomach. "I saw this today in a quiet corner of the city." You step closer, holding it out to him. „And thought of you immediately.“

Erik's eyes move from the bag to your face, then back. The blue paper bag hangs in the air between you, a small bridge over a massive emotional chasm. Erik just stares, his body locked in a state of petrified silence. He doesn’t reach for it. He doesn't even seem to breathe. He is a man who can navigate the most complex architectural traps and compose an opera of a hundred pieces. But the simple act of being handed something out of kindness has completely short-circuited his reality. His fingers twitch rhythmically against the velvet of his cloak. 

You wait, your own heart thudding a nervous rhythm against your ribs. The silence stretches, heavy with everything he isn't saying. Finally, you let out a tiny breath. "Erik," you murmur, your smile widening just a fraction, "This is the part where you’re supposed to look inside and see if I have any taste at all." His eyes snap up to yours, searching for any trace of mockery. He is looking for the catch, the joke or pity. But all he finds is the steady warmth in your gaze. He silently asks for permission with a look so vulnerable it makes your throat tighten. You nod, encouraging him.

He finally reaches out. His hands are trembling violently. His fingers briefly brush yours to take the handles with a slow, reverent caution. He pulls back the protective paper so carefully as if he was handling a literal beating heart beneath it. When he sees the black leather and silver ornaments glinting in the candlelight, a choked intake of breath escapes him.

He sets the bag on the vanity with clumsy, shaking hands and carefully lifts the folder out. His eyes dart across the silver ivy. He shakes his head lightly, as if trying to convince himself he isn’t allowed to have this. "You..." he breathes, his voice cracking to a raw whisper. He runs his thumb over the supple grain of the leather. "While you were..." He stops, unable to find the words. He tries again, his chest heaving under his waistcoat. "This whole time... I was..." He doesn't finish. He can't. The realization that while he was pacing his cell like a beast, convinced you were laughing with a pretty stranger, you were actually standing in a quiet corner of Paris, looking at silver ivy and thinking of him... it is a mercy he isn't prepared for.

Overwhelmed, his legs seem to lose their strength. He steps backward, sinking onto the edge of the velvet daybed. He sits there with his head hung low, his shoulders hunched as he stares at the folder in his lap, his fingers still trembling violently. You take in his form before you, brows furrowing slightly in concern. After a moment, you bridge the distance and sit down beside him, close enough that your arm brushes against his. You feel a jolt go through him, before he slightly relaxes against your proximity. „Erik?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper. "What are you thinking?"

He is silent for a long time, his gaze never leaving the black leather in his lap. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, stripped of every defense. "I am thinking...,“ he breathes, the words barely more than a haunted vibration in the air. It sounds exhausted and achingly thin. He doesn't look up, his expression hollow. „...that I know what I am. I am a pathetic creature, who has spent these past hours consumed by the mere thought of another man near you, wallowing in self-hatred and murderous fantasies. Not only have I wronged you. I have done nothing to deserve... this.“ You cast your gaze down as you listen to him, the genuine hatred laced in his words making your heart truly, positively ache. „I find myself…“, he shakes his head, a sign of aggravation at himself, „I will always find myself waiting for the moment your kindness turns to disgust. For the inevitable hate that follows when a soul realizes what I am.“ He finally looks up at you, his eyes shimmering with a devastating honesty. "This gentleness of yours... cuts deeper than any whip. It is… an exquisite cruelty to let a man taste companionship when he has been damned to starve."

Silence follows, broken by you releasing a shuddering breath you apparently had been holding. You did not even realize that tears have begun forming in your eyes at his words. He watches you, having laid his soul bare before you. Carefully, slowly you move to the floor, kneeling in front of him. You gently take the folder from his hands, moving it to the bed, and take his right hand in yours. He watches your soft expression, his eyes widening as you guide his hand to your chest, placing his palm directly over your heart. The moment his skin meets yours, Erik stops breathing once again. His fingers twitch, a reflexive tremor running through them at the warmth of your skin. He looks down at where his hand sits, his expression one of absolute, shattering disbelief. He can feel it. The steady, thrumming beat of life, a rhythmic proof of your existence.

"This is real, Erik," you whisper, your eyes locking onto his. "It is no ploy. I… care for you." The word care seems to strike him with the force of a physical blow. His head snaps back slightly, his eye searching yours for the millionth time for deceit. He finds none. 

At first, there is a light vibration against your chest. Then, he begins to shake terribly, a violent vibration that spreads through his entire frame. He shakes his head once, as if even his body can't accept your words, then looks at you again. At the way you kneel before him, nothing but warmth in the way you look at him. He is silent for a long moment, when…

"God help me," he whispers, his voice so very brittle. "I believe you."

Tears fall from his eyes, tracing paths down his cheek and the edge of his mask. Without a second thought, you rise and snake your hands around his torso, pulling him close. Your entire being is pressed against him, your face buried against the silk of his shoulder and your legs on either side of him, as you hold him. For a long, agonizing moment, he does not know what to do. His hands hover in the air behind your back, palms open and trembling. He seems terrified that if he touches you, the vision will dissolve after all. You tighten your grip around him, your warmth anchoring him. Just then, the dam truly breaks. He gives in with a ragged, broken sob that shakes his entire body. His arms wound around you with a desperate, crushing strength, pulling you flush against him. He hides his face in the crook of your neck as he - for the very first time in his life - lets himself be held. His fingers clutch the fabric of your dress, your presence the only thing that keeps him from drowning.

You stay like this for a long while, the only sound the fading rhythm of Erik’s breathing as it finally begins to smooth into an exhausted hum. You hold him with a steady, unyielding strength, your fingers tracing the fine silk of his waistcoat as the tension slowly bleeds out of his frame. In that moment, the world is nothing more than the terrifying, beautiful reality of another person.

Until the sharp, rhythmic rap of knuckles against wood shatters the silence. You freeze, your eyes going wide. You are still settled on Erik’s lap, your heart hammering against his chest as you look over his shoulder toward the door. Erik’s entire body goes rigid beneath you, his hands tightening on your waist.

"Y/N..?" Meg’s voice drifts through the heavy oak door. You release a breath, your shoulders dropping an inch. It is only Meg. The door is locked, and you are... occupied. "Yes?" you call back, your voice a fraction higher than usual.

"I was just passing by on my way to the dorms," Meg says, and you can almost hear the wicked, suggestive tilt of her eyebrows through the wood. "I wanted to ask... were you able to deliver your gift?" A fierce heat floods your face. You turn a deep, undeniable scarlet, closing your eyes tight as if the darkness behind your lids could shield you from the fact that Erik is sitting right here, hearing every word of your friend's blatant teasing. You - the woman who had just taken down a stagehand without blinking - are suddenly, hopelessly shy.

It is only then that the thought occurs to you that you should get off him. You begin to disentangle yourself, your movements hurried and clumsy as you slide off his lap, the loss of his warmth making the cool air of the room feel sharp. You step toward the door, smoothing your skirts with trembling hands. Erik watches you, angling his seated position so his eyes can follow you more easily. The shattered man of moments ago is gone, replaced by a quiet, stunned amusement. Seeing you, the Nightingale of the Palais, flush and lose her composure over something like this fascinates him. His eyes search your face, a soft, almost imperceptible light of wonder dancing in his iris. "I did.“ you manage to answer, trying desperately to sound nonchalant.

"And?" Meg prompts, her voice dripping with curiosity. "Did he like it?“ You look back at Erik. He is still sitting on the edge of your bed, the black folder resting beside him, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that makes your skin tingle. You close your eyes as a small, helpless smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. A silent, breathless laugh shakes your shoulders at the sheer absurdity of it all. Here is the Great Ghost of the Opera, the man who struck terror into the hearts of the managers, discussed like a schoolgirl’s crush while he sits on your velvet duvet. You raise your eyebrows and hands at him in a gesture of mock surrender. "I think he did.“, you call out.

There is a sudden, heavy pause from the hallway. You can almost hear the gears turning in Meg’s head as she processes your tone, the locked door, and the deliberate vagueness of your reply. Then, a sharp, audible gasp. "Oh!" Meg’s voice is a frantic, hushed squeak. "Oh, I see. I shall… leave you to it, then! Sleep well, Y/N! I’ll see you at rehearsal!" Her footsteps practically sprint away down the corridor. You let the back of your head fall back against the door with a dull thud, a soft groan escaping your lips as you grimace at the ceiling.

Erik’s low, melodic chuckle breaks the silence. There is no trace of the bitter, hollow tone you have heard before. It is warm, resonant, and touched with a genuine sense of irony. "You told her.“, he murmurs, his voice thick with a mix of disbelief and pride. "You spoke of me... to the Giry girl." You do not dare to look at him. Not yet. 

Erik rises from the bed then, his movements fluid and graceful. He sheds his cloak in a swift motion, setting it on the wood of your bed as he begins to walk toward you in slow and deliberate strides. He stops just a foot away, the scent of sandalwood and parchment enveloping you once more. When you finally look at him again there is a glint in his eyes, his expression one of profound amusement. „I… well, I didn't exactly-“ You start, your voice tripping over itself. You look from his eyes to the buttons of his waistcoat. "I didn't give her a name. I just… might have mentioned-„ 

„A dashing baritone?“, he interrupts, your eyes widening more than you thought possible. You grimace again slightly, your blush deepening. „I didn’t… use quite these words. I just might have mentioned that there was someone... ridiculously brilliant.“ You risk a glance up. Erik lets out a soft, huffed sound of a laugh. A sound of genuine, private delight. He reaches out to tuck a stray, rebellious lock of hair behind your ear with a confidence you did not know he possessed. His fingers linger there, brushing against the sensitive skin of your temple.

"Ridiculously brilliant," he repeats, testing the words as if they were a new melody. His expression softens, the amusement giving way to a look of such raw, quiet gratitude that it makes your breath catch. He realizes that you have not kept him hidden like a shameful secret. You have acknowledged his existence to a person you trust. He stays in your space for one more heartbeat, his gaze searching your face with absolute tenderness.“

Erik’s hand lingers at your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone with a reverence that makes the air feel still. He is looking at you not his protégé, but as the one person who might truly understand him. "I find," he whispers, his voice dropping into that rich, cello-like register, "that despite the lateness of the hour... and the staggering weight of this day... I am not yet ready to retreat into solitude.“

He lowers his hand, turning to look at the leather folder resting on the bed. He walks towards it, picking up the black and silver skin you bought to house his soul. „There is an opera, Y/N. It is unfinished… A work I have spent my life composing in the dark. It is... it is my heart, laid bare in ink." He looks back at you, his eyes burning with a sudden intensity. "I should like for its pages to be the very first to find their home in this."

As you walk through the hallways, you are once again reminded that you are now a focal point of gossip and awe. The air vibrates with a buzzing energy that follows you like a shadow. Passing the orchestra pit, the gruff voice of an old cellist drifts up to you, muttering to his stand-mate about "the grace of a swan and the lungs of a blacksmith.“. By the time you reach the wardrobe department, you’re happy to step onto the wooden pedestal for the seamstresses to begin their work on the Elissa gown.

"Stand still, Mademoiselle," one mumbles through a mouthful of pins as she tugs at the heavy, gold-threaded silk. You don't mind the corset today. In fact, you use it as a resistance tool, surreptitiously practicing the expansion Erik taught you. Every time you flare your ribs against the boning, the seamstress grumbles about shifting measurements, so you eventually stop and let her finish their work.

When you arrive for the rehearsal, you see Monsieur Andre and Monsieur Firmin practically vibrating with corporate glee. "She’s a marvel, André," Firmin says, loud enough for his voice to carry to the stage. "A stroke of luck amidst the... er... usual difficulties." You give them a small curtsy, before you focus on practicing for the performance. From the shadows of the rafters, Erik watches the subtle, controlled flare of your ribs against your bodice. The sight of you keeping in mind what he taught you sends a jolt of fierce, possessive pride through his chest.

The other ballet girls are a chorus of hushed whispers. Every time you move, you feel their eyes on you, with a mix of newfound awe and biting envy. "Did you see the flowers at your door?" Meg whispers to you during a break, her voice hitching with excitement. "There’s a huuuge bouquet of lilies! It must have taken two stagehands to carry. And the card... it has a coronet on it, Y/N. A Vicomte!" High above, Erik’s grip on the iron catwalk railing above tightens.

"A Vicomte, Meg? I’ve never even spoken to the man," you say, your voice dry as you adjust the sleeve of your practice bodice. "It’s a bit much, isn't it? It feels less like a gift and more like a loud announcement of his own importance."

Meg lets out a dramatic gasp, clutching her practice skirt. "Oh, hush, Y/N. He’s a Vicomte! He has the kind of wealth that could  have the stage floor replaced with solid silver if you so much as hinted at it. A girl in our position doesn't look a title like that in the mouth. You take the flowers, you take the jewelry, and you let him buy you the world!" You offer a smile and raise an eyebrow at her in an amused fashion, shaking your head as the rehearsal continues.

As the sun begins to set over Paris, you make your way back to the prima donna room. Meg walks with you, her arm linked in yours, but as you approach your door, you stop. A massive, almost aggressive bouquet of white lilies stands on a pedestal in front of your room. The scent is sweet and… a lot. Tucked into the center is a small, cream-colored note embossed with a Coronet.

Meg nudges you sharply with her elbow, wiggling her brows at you with a suggestive giggle. "Think about it! A life without leaky roofs and stale bread!" With a final, playful wink, she turns to head back toward the dorms, leaving you with the heavy scent of lilies.

You look at the lilies. They are the kind of gesture a man makes when he wants to be seen making a gesture. A demand for your attention. You reach out and pluck the cream-colored card from the petals. It is heavy paper, smelling faintly of expensive cologne.

"To the most captivating Elissa the Opera has ever seen. Your performance was a revelation. I hope these flowers find you as radiant as you were on stage. — R. de Chagny"

Behind the paneling of the hallway, Erik glares at the aggressive white blooms as if he could set them on fire with his mind. They are a reminder of the "proper" world that would eventually try to claim you. His mind is already spiraling into the dark math of how to dispose of the young nobleman, if needed. But then, his jealousy mixes with a desperate need to see how you will handle such a blatant, public pursuit.

You nudge the door open and step inside. The massive bouquet of lilies is indeed "aggressive," taking up half the space in the small entryway. You pick them up and carry them inside, simply because it would be rude and impractical to leave them standing in the doorway. You set them on a side table near the door. You leave them in their paper wrapping, a beautiful but hollow inconvenience. 

Behind the silk-papered walls, Erik slips from the hallway’s narrow spy-hole, navigating the internal seams of the building until he reaches the void behind the grand mirror in your dressing room. He is breathless, his pulse still hammering from the way you dismissed the Vicomte’s tribute.

Through the two-way glass, he watches you. You move toward the vanity. You pick up the single red rose he had placed there.  There is no note. No coronet. No grand declaration. Yet, he sees the way your expression softens. You lift the bloom, smelling the petals, your fingers grazing the stem he so carefully stripped of thorns. Seeing that tenderness - and knowing it is reserved for him - sends a shiver of pure, unadulterated electricity through Erik’s frame. 

You begin to prepare for the stage. You step into the elaborate gown, a masterpiece of crimson and  emerald silk shot through with heavy gold embroidery. You move with casual grace, subtly swaying your hips to feel how the heavy skirts drape. You hum a low melody as you do. Your fingers reach for the rose and pin it carefully into your hair, the dark red a striking contrast against your skin. Then, you take the small pot of crimson pigment. Standing before the mirror, you apply the red lipstick with a steady hand, your lips parted slightly.

Only then do you freeze, the humming dying as that familiar awareness of a presence settles over the room. You look into the glass, searching for the man you know must be there. Behind the silvered surface, Erik is a man coming undone.

He stands in the dark, his hands pressed against the cold masonry to keep himself from reaching out. He saw the way you moved. That instinctive, graceful sway in your step. He felt the breath leave his lungs. He is acutely, painfully aware of the attraction. He tries to fight it, to frame it as the clinical devotion of a master to a student, but the lie is disintegrating. 

You wearing his rose - the color matching your lips perfectly, he notices - is a victory he thought he was content with. But seeing the way you look into the mirror with a daring, quiet recognition… He feels a terrifying surge of hope and desire, a profane mixture of worship and hunger he doesn't have a chance to fight. 

"Mademoiselle! Two minutes to curtain!"

The sharp words from the hallway break the spell. You take one last look at the mirror. A faint, knowing smile touches your reddened lips before you turn and sweep out of the room. He remains in the dark a moment longer, his gaze fixed on the spot where you stood.

As the orchestra swells into the opening of the Hannibal finale, you find your mark with a dancer’s precision. You can feel the weight of the rose pinned in your hair.

When you draw your first breath, it isn’t the shallow, panicked inhale of a girl trying to please a crowd. It is the deep, silent breathing Erik taught you. When you open your mouth, the sound is divine. It has the ring of a silver bell and the grit of the earth. You aren't just singing notes, you are showing him that you listened. You feel a surge of raw, intoxicating power. The audience has gone deathly still, the kind of silence that only happens when a crowd realizes they are witnessing something extraordinary. 

High in the shadows of Box Five, Erik stands transfixed. The sight of you wielding his technique like a blade is almost more than his heart can bear. He watched you dismiss the wealth of a nobleman. He watched you transform. And now, hearing you sing... he feels a sense of ownership mixed with a terrifying loss of control. It is not hunger that he feels, it is a deep recognition. He sees the way you hold the stage. You are the only person in the world who has ever taken his genius and made it something alive, something beautiful, and something yours.

You hit the final high note. It’s resonant, perfectly supported, and echoing with the authority he promised. Erik closes his eyes. A jagged breath escapes him. He is shattered by the beauty of a woman who chose his rose over the world’s lilies.

For a heartbeat, there is a vacuum of silence. Then, the applause hits like a physical wave. You stand at the center of it, and take a bow. You don't wait for the flowers to be thrown. You don't wait for Monsieur Firmin to waddle onto the stage to claim your success as his own. As the curtain closes, you turn and vanish into the wings.

You find yourself surrounded by stagehands, dancers, and musicians, all clamoring for a piece of you - the „The Nightingale of the Populaire.“. You offer polite nods and small, civil smiles to the people congratulating you. "Magnificent, Y/N!" one of the flautists calls out, and you give him a genuine, tired dip of your head. You move through the crowd, your eyes constantly scanning the peripheries.

As you reach the hallway leading to the Prima Donna’s suite, you see him. At the far end, framed by the flickering gaslight, stands the Vicomte, Raoul de Chagny. He looks like a man who has seen a goddess, or perhaps a miracle. As your eyes meet briefly he stops, then takes a step forward, wanting to come close enough to speak to you. You give him a final, polite but distant glance. Then you slip around the corner and vanish into your room.

The cloying scent of the lilies greets you as you step inside. You sigh, and sink into your vanity chair.  The red lipstick still sits perfectly, but the gold-threaded silk feels increasingly heavy on your shoulders. The presence you felt so clearly behind the mirror earlier has retreated. 

"Rest. I will not have you fatigued for the sake of a lesson.“, he had said.

Usually, you’d be tempted to stay up, to head out and roam around the secret passageways. But tonight, you find yourself wanting to obey him. You carefully unpin the rose and place it in a small glass of water on your desk.

She grabs your hand, her palm damp with secondhand nerves. „Do you think this is about yesterday?“, you ask. „They’d be stupid if it wasn’t.“, she offers, giving you a reassuring smile. You follow her through the winding corridors, your ballet shoes silent on the stone.

The door to the managers’ office is heavy oak, muffled by the thick velvet curtains inside. When you step through, the scent of expensive tobacco and old paper hits you. Monsieur Firmin is on his feet before you can even close the door. "Ah! Our Nightingale! Our savior!" He beams, his face flushed with a genuine, smitten glow. He looks at you as if you are a rare gem he’s just pulled from a pile of coal. "I haven't slept, Mademoiselle! That E-flat... it still rings in my ears like a silver bell!"

Monsieur André, however, remains seated, his expression neutral, professional. He looks tired. On his desk lies a single sheet of parchment, inked meticulously. „Firmins theatrics aside," André says, his voice dry, "we have received... instructions." He slides the note toward you. The script is sharp, precise.

„The dancer has become the song. You will vacate the Prima Donna’s suite for Mademoiselle Y/N. She shall sing the lead tonight. I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five, which will be kept empty for me. Your obedient servant, O.G.“

"He's taken an interest in you," André mutters, rubbing his temples. "The Opera Ghost. He seems quite insistent that you are the future of this house."

"He has excellent taste!" Firmin chirps, ignoring Andrés scowl. "Mademoiselle, the room is yours. The contract is being drawn. You are our Elissa."

Meg is practically vibrating with suspense as she leads you toward the grander wing of the house. „The prima donna room, Y/N! Can you imagine? No more shared washbasins!" The prima room is a masterpiece of craftsmanship: The heavy mahogany of the bureau, the precise joinery of the floorboards, the velvet furnishing. But also, the room is a sea of aggressive pinks and golds. The cloying, musky scent of jasmine - Carlotta’s signature - clings to the fabric, thick enough to taste. The room is cluttered with the debris of her vanity: overflowing hatboxes, discarded clothes, and plenty of wilting lilies that smell of sweet decay. You walk to the window and push it open.

"Look at this mirror!" Meg gasps, running to the massive gold-framed glass. You step closer. The mirror is truly beautiful, with its ornate gold frame. Something about it makes you wonder, but Meg pulls you out of your thoughts. „The managers must have been busy this morning." She points to a single flower resting on the vanity, right at the base of the glass. It is a deep, velvet crimson rose. It sits in a simple, slender crystal vase. The stem is perfectly smooth. Every single thorn has been stripped away. "Oh, how thoughtful," Meg chirps, peering over your shoulder. "They must have sent it to welcome you."

"Yes," you mumble, your thumb tracing the soft curve of a petal. „It is.“

The rest of the day is a whirlwind of rehearsals. The stage feels different now. The orchestra treats you with a new, tentative respect. Reyer, the conductor, no longer barks, he listens. But as the sun sets and the house begins to fill with the Parisian elite, the pressure begins to settle in your stomach. You are called to the wardrobe for the final fitting of your gown. The dress is a masterpiece of heavy red and green silk, embroidered with gold thread. It is heavy, the weight of it reminding you of the responsibility you now carry. The bodice is stiff, forcing your posture into that of a queen. The skirts rustle with a sound like dry leaves. The lace at the sleeves is delicate, scratching slightly against your wrists, reminding you that you are encased in art. You stand before the long mirror in the wardrobe, watching the seamstresses fuss over the hem. You look like a stranger. A royal.

"You're shaking, Mademoiselle," one of the women whispers. You tell her that you are alright, and dismiss them, needing a moment of silence. You walk back to your dressing room, the heavy silk of your skirts swishing against the floorboards. The room is dim, the rose still sitting on the vanity. You reach for it and tuck it behind your ear, nestling it into the dark waves of your hair. You turn toward the door, the weight of the silk and the scent of the rose following you. It is time.

The silence behind the velvet of the grand curtain is absolute, a pressurized vacuum that hums in your ears. You feel his presence as you stand in the center of the stage, the silk of your gown spilling around your feet. The weight of the bodice keeps your spine straight and your shoulders back. Your heart beats with a rhythm that threatens to drown out the orchestra. You close your eyes. You don't think of the managers, the critics, or the thousands of francs resting on this moment. You reach for the music. You let it coil around your spirit, the melody of Elissa’s lament becoming your own pulse. You think of the fire. You think of the man who stripped every thorn from a rose so you wouldn't bleed. 

The curtain parts.

The light is a sudden, blinding roar of white and gold. The shadow in Box Five feels the air leave his lungs. The contrast of the silk of your gown catches his eye, but there, nestled in your hair, sits the rose. His rose. The sight of it hits him with the force of a physical blow. He traces the curve of those petals with his eyes, knowing that just hours ago, he had held that very stem, meticulously stripping away every threat to your skin. To see you wear it so openly is a gesture he does not know how to handle.

Then, the first notes of the aria rise from the pit. You sing of Carthage. You sing of a queen watching her hero sail away, her heart breaking for a home that no longer exists. The notes are dark, honeyed velvet, vibrating through the auditorium. You aren't just performing, you are mourning. Every cold night on the streets of Paris is poured into the phrasing. Your voice soars, a blissful sound that seems to make the chandelier tremble.

High above in the darkness of Box Five, he stands still. He does not breathe, he only absorbs. For nine years, he was convinced that the music in his head was a solitary burden, a language only he could speak. But as your voice climbs, it maps the very shape of his soul. To him, your voice is something celestial. And somehow it also is a physical weight that anchors his fractured world. He hears your your pain, your resilience, the fire in your soul. He realizes, with a staggering clarity, that you are singing the music he thought would die with him.

On the stage, you feel him. His gaze that is both a shield and a challenge. You know exactly where he is. The connection is a cord stretched between the stage and the darkness, vibrating with every breath you take. You aren't singing for the managers' approval, or the roar of the crowd. You are singing to the man who corrected your map, the man who saw the capability in you when you were just a girl finding her way through the dark. As you reach the climax of the aria, you lean into his invisible presence, letting your voice anchor itself to his silence. It is an act of defiant intimacy, a private conversation held in front of two thousand people, where the only two who truly understand the meaning of the notes are you and the man in the walls. For a moment it feels as if the rest of the world has faded away. 

But the world refuses to fade. You catch the faces in the front rows, a sea of white ties and shimmering jewels. They are transfixed. You see men leaning forward, their mouths slightly parted, eyes wide with fascination. Among them, in the grand tier, sits a young man. He is conventionally handsome, blonde curls and striking green eyes. He looks at you not with the critical eye of a patron, but with a boyish, startled wonder. You take note of them with a distant, polite kindness. 

And he? He sees them too. The way they lean forward, their eyes wide and hungry. The way they are looking at you has his fingers curl into the velvet ledge of the box. A low, guttural growl dies in his throat. He wants to reach down and pluck those eyes from their sockets for the crime of looking at you are with such common, shallow desire. Knowing that only he knows the woman who bleeds into the keys of an out-of-tune piano.

The final note leaves your throat, a soaring, shimmering thing that hangs in the air for a heartbeat after the orchestra falls silent.

The silence is broken by a roar. It is a physical wall of sound, applause that shakes the floorboards. André and Firmin are in the wings, nearly weeping with relief. Meg is jumping with joy. You bow, the rose still tucked firmly behind your ear. The moment the final curtain falls the Messieurs begin to swarm the stage with their congratulations. 

As soon as you see your opening, you slip into the shadows of the scenery. The sound of the stagehands scrambling and Monsieur André shouting about champagne grows distant as you head for the service stairs, your skirts bunched in your hands. You climb. Past the rehearsal lofts up toward the very crown of the building. Your breath is shallow but you don't stop until you push open the heavy iron door leading to the roof.

The night air hits you like a cold, silk caress. It is a shock after the stifling heat of the gaslights. You step onto the lead-covered roof, the vast, silver expanse of Paris stretching out below you like a carpet of fallen stars. The city hums in the distance, but up here, there is only the wind. You stand by the stone balustrade, your chest heaving, the silk of your gown shimmering in the moonlight. 

The roof should be empty. You are certain no one followed you through that door, for you would have heard the click of the latch. And yet, the air changes. You feel him before you hear him. You close your eyes and smile, letting the wind travel through your hair. An otherworldly voice fills the air. 

"Brava... Brava... Bravissima.“ 

It is the first time you hear his voice, and the sound of it sends a shiver down your spine. „Y/N…“. You turn your head, looking over your shoulder toward the darkness near the great stone statues of the pediment. You can’t see him yet, but the air vibrates with him. „You were …extraordinary.“, he says. You can’t deny the effect his voice has on you, a strange warmth that begins in your chest and radiates outward, making the cold air loose its‘ relevance. 

"Thank you," you breathe, your voice steady despite the thudding of your pulse. "I’ve been waiting to hear from you again.“, you admit. Deep in the shadows, his heart stutters. Waiting? As someone who has spent his life as a horror story, he is not used to you speaking to him as if he were a long-awaited guest.

"I’ve heard you play," you continue, your voice gaining strength. "For so many nights. I think some part of me always knew it was you. The way you play is outstanding.“, you pause, closing your eyes as you think back to it, „When you play I can… feel it all.“

For a short moment, it is absolutely quiet. „Feeling is the essence of music," he says then. There‘s something raw, and undoubtedly human about his voice. „Few people truly understand it.“ You think of how many seasons Carlottas shallow performances filled the auditorium, and nod lightly. 

You pause, looking back to the skyline before you. You think of all the times you heard him play, of how you tried to follow his music, but never found a thing. Then you let out a small, soft huff of a laugh. „With how many hours I spent wandering the dark passageways of the opera house… I’m surprised I’ve never seen it. The organ, I mean. The place you must play from.“ A takes a sharp breath. The realization that when he wasn’t watching your steps, you were navigating the darkness in search of his music - of him - leaves the man feeling perilously exposed. At first, there is only silence again. Then, there is movement. He steps out from behind the shadow of a weeping muse, stopping a few strides away. 

You turn around, letting your eyes wander over his form. He is a tall silhouette against the night sky. "Few who hear the music dare to seek its source," he finally replies. His voice is lower now, an intimate register that seems to hum against your skin. "You are either very brave... or very foolish." His dark eyes burn intensely, searching your face for any sign of fear, or at least intimidation. Finding none, he takes a single, impulsive step toward you. You hold his gaze, looking right through his attempt to startle you.

A playful and defiant smirk forms on your lips. „I find that being a bit of both can be a distinct advantage." He shifts, the fluid grace of his movements momentarily stuttering. He has mastered the art of being the hunter, yet in the face of your unwavering gaze and that playful tilt of your lips, he finds himself disarmed by a weapon he doesn't recognize: genuine, human connection. “You're bold, Mademoiselle“, he says, „exceptionally so.” 

He looks at you, then at the rose in your hair. To see his offering worn so openly, stirs a possessive pride in him. He looks at you, and though the mask hides his features, the tension in his jaw betrays his agitation. "You wear it," he murmurs, "A dangerous choice, Mademoiselle." He takes a slow, measured step toward you. Up close, the details of him snap into focus. You make out the fine grain of his porcelain mask, and the way his eyes burn with a feverish intensity. "Your voice is a revelation. You weave emotion into what you sing. But there are depths in your voice that the fools in the orchestra pit could never fathom, architectures of sound that require a master’s hand to build."

He pauses, the wind catching his cloak. "If you truly possess the courage you claim… If you truly wish to see where the music lives then meet me tomorrow night where your map was corrected. In the third cellar, when the house has turned to silence. I will show you the instrument that shaped those notes, I will show you that music itself is a language. And I shall teach you how to speak it."

Without waiting for an answer, he steps back into the shadows of the stone muses. "Go now. The cold is a thief of the voice, and you have much work ahead of you." The command is sharp, but there’s a low, uneven vibration in his voice that betrays him. 

You look at him for another moment. You study the line of his shoulder, the way his gloved hand is clenched at his side. You don't want to go yet. The cool night air and the presence of this strange, brilliant man feel more like home than that sensory assault of a dressing room. But he is right. The world below is calling, and you cannot hide on the roof forever. You reluctantly nod in agreement, your gaze casting down toward the floor. Before you turn to the door, you look up at him one last time.

„Will you tell me your name?“ you say, your voice a soft, steady thread in the wind. "Your real name. Not what people call you."

The silence that follows is absolute. The city hums far below, but up here, time seems to hold its breath. For a while you think he will not answer at all. You sense that he is looking at you from where he stands in the shadows. He is searching your face for a hidden sting, a mocking edge. No one has asked for his name in decades. He finds only the same gentle curiosity that has been there since you first arrived at the Opera Populaire. 

"Erik," he whispers. The name is a fractured, breathy sound. It is as if it hasn't been spoken aloud in a lifetime. It may be a small word, but it carries the weight of many years spent in the dark. A small, genuine smile touches your lips. "Erik," you repeat softly, the sound of his name on your lips a gift returned to him. "Good night then, Erik." You turn, the silk of your skirts rustling as you walk toward the iron door. You don't look back, but you feel his gaze following you until the door clicks shut behind you.

The heat of the theater hits you like a physical blow as you enter. The noise below is a cacophony of scraping chairs, popping corks, and frantic, high-pitched chatter. You feel the weight of the night in your limbs, the red and green silk of your gown suddenly feeling like a suit of armor you are desperate to shed.

"There she is! Our star! Our savior!" Monsieur Firmins voice booms across the corridor. You give him a small weary smile. He stumbles toward you, his face a bright red. Before you can step back, his hand snakes around your waist, pulling you into a clumsy, celebratory squeeze. He smells of expensive brandy and triumphant relief. "A toast! To the Nightingale of the Opera!" His demeanor is somewhat bemusing to you. Still, you stiffen at the unexpected pressure of his hand.

Thwack.

Monsieur Andrés cane descends sharply onto Firmins foot, making him untangle yourself from you. "Control yourself, Firmin,“ André snaps, though his own eyes are bright with the thrill of a successful box office. He offers you a stiff, formal bow. "Do excuse my colleague’s manners, Mademoiselle. He has had... significantly more than his share of the celebratory vintage."

"I am beyond happy for the opportunity, Messieurs," you say, your voice polite but distant as you offer a smile. "But it has been a long evening. I’d like to rest now."

"Of course, of course!" Firmin chirps, rubbing his hands together. "Rest those golden cords!"

As you turn to leave, you find Madame Giry standing by the wing. She is as still as a statue, her hand resting on the silver head of her cane. Her sharp eyes rake over you, lingering on the rose behind your ear. She doesn't speak, but a flicker of something — recognition, or perhaps a warning — passes through her gaze. 

"You were marvelous, Y/N! Truly!" Meg appears at your side, her face beaming with a joy so pure it makes your heart ache. She walks with you toward the dressing room corridor, her arm linked with yours. "The way you held that final note... I thought the chandelier was going to shatter. Where did you slip off to? I looked everywhere for you!" You don’t want to lie to her, but telling her the truth doesn’t feel quite right either. "I just needed the air, Meg," you murmur, squeezing her hand.

"Well, you deserve all the air in Paris," she giggles, stopping at the door of the Prima Donna’s suite. "Sleep well. Tomorrow, the whole city will be talking about you." You bid her goodnight and step into the dressing room to find it blissfully, unexpectedly empty. 

The mountain of lilies and the swarm of admirers are nowhere to be seen. You realize with a surge of gratitude that Madame Giry must have cleared the path. You lock the door. The click of the bolt is the most beautiful sound you've heard since you returned from the roof.

Silence. 

You move to the vanity, your hand reaching for the rose behind your ear. You set it into the crystal vase and lean in, inhaling the scent. You look at yourself in the mirror, gingerly unfastening the clasps of your dress. The colorful silk falls away in a heavy, rustling heap, leaving you in the simple, thin cotton of your chemise. You feel lighter, the air of the room finally reaching your skin. You reach up and pull the pins from your hair, letting the dark waves tumble down your back in a messy, uninhibited waterfall. As you brush out the tangles, a melody begins to stir in your chest. It isn’t the aria you sang tonight. It is the music from below, the haunting, searching song Erik played on his organ just yesterday. You hum it softly, the low vibration of the notes warming your throat.