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Chapter Text

Somewhere outside of Paris, 1943

The auctioneer’s gavel rang throughout the room, echoing off the high vaulted ceiling. Everything smelled of dust, of old things abandoned to the slow death of uselessness and inevitable decomposition.

The war had left everyone destitute. Even the most treasured objects were up for grabs these days.

“Lot six-six-four,” the man intoned loudly. “An arch floor mirror in the rococo style.”

The mirror was approximately six foot tall and in surprisingly good shape for its age. The glass was a bit crazed from being left somewhere that alternated between too hot and too cold, but it was nothing a dedicated glass maker could not replace. The gold was not tarnished, showing off its validity.

Vicomte Gustave de Chagny’s eyes dragged over it as the auctioneer cried out, “Sold!” and the mirror was rolled away on a dolly. He knew there was a hidden mechanism at its back that its future owner would most likely never find: some sort of button or small lever that slid the glass open and permitting even the tallest of men to walk through it.

Behind him, resting his arms on the chair, was his son, Leo. The boy – although Gustave could scarcely call him this at thirty years of age – had radiant blue eyes and a somewhat vacant smile. His wavy hair was black as pitch and constantly falling into his face; Leo never bothered moving it out of his way. He was a cheerful boy that his governess described as being “far more brawn than brain.”

Gustave only claimed his son if anybody asked for the title. Otherwise, the child remained his in name only.

“Lot six-six-five,” the auctioneer announced. “A snuff music box. Plays an unknown tune and is still in good working condition.”

The man’s assistant demonstrates by twisting the tiny coil at the music box’s side. It begins to twinkle softly.

Gustave did know the melody, though it remained unnamed even to him. He’d heard it only once in all his life, sung straight from the Devil’s throat, inside the deepest pits of hell…

The music box finished its song, and Gustave was brought back to the present.

The auctioneer was describing it. “This carillons à musique is constructed of maple wood and has something painted in gold on its front. It is apparent, though, that it was dearly loved; the painted lettering has been chipped away to almost nothing.”

The letters read Je t’aimerai toujours. Gustave had seen it with his own eyes. He remembered how his husband would stroke the paint gently with one fingertip, as though committing the words to memory.

Gustave loathed the damned thing. But it had been Verso’s dying wish to hear it play again.

It was too late for that now. But Gustave was determined to bring it back to him somehow.

“This was discovered in theater’s vaults,” the auctioneer continued. “Despite its worn appearance, as you can no doubt hear, it still plays as though it were only recently constructed. I shall start the bidding at twenty francs.”

Leo held up his father’s paddle. “Do I hear twenty-five?” the dealer asked.

Another woman across from Gustave held up her own paddle. “Thank you Madame!” cried the vendor. “Thirty for you, sir?”

Again, Leo flagged him.

“Thirty-five, yes?”

The woman shook her head. No one else was bidding, too enthralled by bigger items such as the mirror.

“Once?” Nothing.

“Twice, then?” Gustave realized he was holding his breath, he let it out.

“Sold!” the auctioneer grinned at him. “Congratulations, Monsieur. It is a collector’s piece.”

“Thank you,” Gustave replied gruffly. “Boy. Take the box and bring it out to the car.”

“Yes, Papa.” Leo dipped his chin politely and walked away.

Gustave wanted to scream, do not call me that! But it seemed ridiculous to have an outburst in such reserved company. Besides, he had raised the child for thirty years. Leo was his charge, whether he wanted the responsibility or not.

He had to wait a few minutes for Leo to fetch him and bring him to their vehicle. Leo knew how to drive, albeit slowly. Once this was over, they were to visit Verso’s grave and drop off his reclaimed gift.

A massive chandelier was being hoisted via pulley above their heads. “This chandelier is older than the Opera House itself,” the vendor spoke. “It has been refitted with electric lighting, and is available as-is or with additional pieces that would only take a resolute man a few hours to reapply.”

He went on. “It is allegedly haunted, the subject of a great curse from the supposed Phantom of the Opera. Pish posh, I say. It is nothing but a rumor; do not let its mythological status deter you from purchasing such a grand piece.”

He gestured for a few other men standing behind him. They scurried somewhere out of sight. “A demonstration, ladies and gentlemen. My assistants shall raise the curtains and turn on the lights for you to see.”

The bulbs glowed, and all could hear the faint sizzling and popping of somewhat faulty electrical wiring.

But then the candelabrum did turn on, and the result was as radiant as though a choir of angels were singing above them all.

Gustave’s heart hammered to see it. A hand settling on his shoulder caused him to jump.

“Papa?” asked Leo, concerned. “Are you ready to leave? Is your heart alright?”

“Yes,” Gustave snapped. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

An hour passed, and they arrived at the local cemetery. Late winter snow crunched under his wheels as Leo guided him towards Verso’s final resting place. In the boy’s arms now lay a bouquet of red and white flowers – roses and narcissus – Verso’s favorites. Baby’s Breath, he used to say, are too commercial. Everyone likes them because their scent is mild and they last a long time. Give me the narcissus instead – it’s shaped like a sin, and roses are the color of one.

“Say hello to your father.” Gustave nodded towards the headstone.

Verso de Chagny

1880-1913

Loving Husband and Father

God Called Him Home

The love of Gustave’s life had died giving birth to their only son. It had cost the Vicomte extra to grease the palms of the undertaker so that he printed Loving Husband instead of Loving Wife.

Leo was approaching the grave with trepidation.

“He loved you,” Gustave pointed out, anger tinging his tone. “He isn’t going to bite you, little fool. Say hello!”

They had a good few years before Verso became pregnant where they were simply two people who were married to each other and very much in love. But one weekend found Gustave travelling on matters of business, leaving poor Verso without any company.

After several years of trying without any success, he mysteriously fell with child.

It was as though Gustave’s whole world ended, or so he had first thought.

Then Verso passed, and his husband of seven summers no longer wished to keep on living.

He managed, of course. Leo needed raising; there was only so much a governess could do without the lord of the house to help her. Gustave had paid for boarding schools and riding lessons and piano tutors (blasted instruments, he hated those as well, though Leo excelled at it). He had taught the boy how to be courteous and well-read, although Leo expressed little interest in books. He was mostly interested in rugby, which he was also terrifically good at.

Gustave was not even that upset about the affair, not after all this time. He forgave his husband those trespasses many moons ago. He would have happily let Verso go if it meant he would be genuinely happy with someone else.

But why him. Why the Phantom?

Why that murderer, slanderer, thief-

“Someone else came to visit!” Leo clapped his hands as though he were six and not thirty. “There is another set of flowers here already!”

“Impossible,” Gustave blustered, rolling over as best as he was able to take a closer look. Renoir would be in his eighties at this point…

And yet there the petals sat. Roses and narcissus, a dozen of each. When Gustave studied the area around them more carefully, he spotted evidence of a cane being pulled through the surrounding snow.

Gustave glared at the tracks spitefully. Still here ruining our goddamn lives, old man?

Leo set the music box next the flowers, then placed his own bouquet at the foot of the stone.

“My dear,” Gustave whispered as he stared at the ground beneath which Verso lay entombed, “we’ve brought you a birthday present.”

Leo wound up the snuff box with Gustave’s encouragement. He hummed a bit to the tune, letting it bring him back to when the name Vicomte de Chagny had actually meant something.

And back when his beloved Verso had still drawn breath.

Chapter Text

Paris, 1906

Verso Dessendre rested his foot flat against the wall, getting in some last-minute calf stretches before he had to join the other dancers.

He moved into third position, then to plie, balancing his arms at his sides. His stomach muscles tightened as he changed over to fifth, one foot before the other. There was far too much tension in his shoulders; he allowed himself to breathe.

He wore a black leotard with white tights. In a handful of minutes, he would need to shuffle off to wardrobe and let the bossy costumer change him into plain dark leggings and a more spectacular light green tunic. He would match perfectly with the other men and ladies that flitted around before the opera house’s most well-known soprano, Clea.

The only part of getting changed was when the designers fussed anywhere near his breasts. Verso deliberately kept them bound; it was an open secret, but he still hated to be touched anywhere along his torso.

Anxiety and exhilaration kept him from feeling too tired as he finished the exercises. He turned as his ballet instructor, the stern but maternal Madame Lune, came over to watch him move.

He heard her strict voice before she even deigned to open her mouth. “Back straight, boy,” she demanded. She reached over and placed a feather-light hand on his lower spine; Verso instinctively drew his shoulders over his hips to adjust his posture. “Change to third position.”

He did as she asked. Lune clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Better,” she said, high praise from someone as exacting as she was.

Verso bent his arms so that his hands nearly rested on his waist. Lune moved one of his elbows slightly. “Not perfect,” she frowned. This was her usual catchphrase, a neutral term that one far preferred over her shouting demands right into your face.

She spent the next few moments fixing his foot placement and tapping his chin to get him to keep his head straight. “Remember to watch where you’re going,” she chided, but there was a teasing lilt to her tone. “Won’t have one of my better dancers falling ass over teakettle when Clea’s hitting a high note.”

They both chuckled at this. Clea was their Primadonna, the theater’s best performers. Clea had the tendency to feel as though she were the most flawless being that had ever been created, and everyone else as lower than packs of rats.

It was nothing personal. Sciel, Lune’s lover and Verso’s dearest friend, once gossiped that she’d been born out of a vat of vinegar and it was taking a long time to rinse all of it off of her.

Lune swatted Verso playfully on the arm. “Out you get,” she said. “They’re waiting for you across the way.”

He realized that he was running a little late. “I’m going,” he told her unnecessarily. “Thank you.”

Verso scurried off towards the costumers, noticing that most of his companions were already making their way towards the wings. He permitted the workers to poke and prod him in all the usual places until he was more or less prepared to join the chorus line.

He shuffled in behind Sciel, hopping up and down on his toes nervously. “Thought you got lost,” his friend winked at him.

“Your paramour seized her chance to chew me up and spit me out,” Verso replied. “Luckily she was feeling fond this evening and let me go with little more than a cat scratch.”

Sciel nodded and smiled dreamily. “She’s a tad more relaxed now than she was earlier.”

Verso gasped, and she giggled. “Why do you think you didn’t see her at rehearsals this morning? We were busy.”

“Okay,” he responded, shaking his head and trying to hide his blush. Things like sex and romance were beyond him, even at the overripe age of twenty-six. Living in the opera house twenty-four-seven since he was eighteen had left him sheltered but not stupid. He knew what lovers did together, and even desired it for himself, but the very concept of being as bold as his friends were left him flustered.

The stage lights blinded him temporarily as the theme for that night’s production of Hannibal started to crescendo.

Clea, imposing and always the center of attention, boomed out her lines as the dancers twirled around her in a semi-circle, shuffling their feet to stay on beat and – most importantly – out of her way. Her vibrato captured the whole audience, as did the prop she held before her: a disembodied dummy head made of burlap, with bright red fabric strips hanging limply from its bottom. A background actor approached with a bullwhip in his hand; he cracked it expertly at Clea’s feet. She appeared disinterested; only focused on the decapitated individual she cradled to her bosom.

Verso’s job – as had been his job for the past eight years – was to “stand there and look pretty,” as Clea described it. He could sing and dance and – to a lesser extent – play the piano and violin, though he was not afforded nearly as much time to practice as he wished.

His mother had passed away from consumption when he was just at the cusp of adulthood. His father – who had up until that point been a caring and affectionate man – disappeared a year later, leaving Verso destitute and living on the streets. He spent the last months of his boyhood scavenging for food, unable to keep up with the mortgage and too young to have a steady source of income. Heartbroken after the loss of his parents, Verso would have taken to drinking as the other homeless men did, but found he cared not for the tastes of wine or spirits.

Not long after his eighteenth birthday, he awoke beneath a canopy of newly-budded spring trees to find a letter dropped onto his chest by an unknown deliverer. The note indicated that a new job had opened up at the Opera de Populaire: they were in search of a young man able to fill roles as a background actor.

The dancing lessons came after he joined, but the singing had originally been taught to him by his father, Renoir. Renoir Dessendre was something of a gifted entertainer, able to perform magic for a host of dashing gentlemen one moment and spouting off Shakespeare for a gaggle of charmed ladies. His looks helped, although he bore a scar running down the length of one eye, Renoir had a smile that could sweep anyone off their feet and a soothing, smoky voice to accompany it.

Things had been all right after his wife, Aline, died, though Verso seemed to remember some underlying tension pressing into the room whenever they were alone together. Renoir appeared to be increasingly on edge about something, though if asked about it he waved his son off.

The day before he vanished, Renoir had participated in some rather professional levels of drinking. Verso had come home from school to see his father sitting in a lounge chair, a mostly-empty whiskey bottle at his feet. His eyes were closed, and it was difficult to see the rise and fall of his chest.

“Papa?” he had asked, fearing his father had drunk himself to death.

Renoir stirred. “My boy,” he said, barely able to get the words out. “Here. Come here.”

Verso went to him. He was shocked when his father scooped him into his lap as though he were still a child. “My sweet thing.” Renoir nuzzled his cheek. Verso wrinkled his nose against the stink of his breath.

Suddenly, his father was kissing him roughly. Verso tried pulling away, but Renoir held him tightly around his middle. His tongue found the inside of Verso’s mouth, and without meaning to Verso sighed against his lips.

Then Renoir had shoved him away, agitated and even more horrified than his son had been. Without speaking, he swayed to his feet and thundered off to his marital bed, now empty, to sleep the rest of the day away.

Confused and hurt, with his heart going a mile a minute, Verso fixed himself a meek dinner of baked beans before retiring early himself.

The next day, Renoir was gone. Verso never saw him again.

Now his life was much better. In addition to being gainfully employed, he had made friends here, and even had someone looking after him that Sciel jokingly referred to as his secret admirer.

It was a strange thing that had been happening to him nearly constantly since the start of his tenure. If he needed a new outfit, one materialized in his closet the next day. If he were feeling blue, a favorite dessert or new book made its way onto his writing desk.

He assumed it to be the actions of a rather persistent patron. It was more common that the ballerinas had someone doting on them, though it was not entirely unheard of for the men to receive a few potential suitors as well.

The dancers and background singers were like a swarm of bees gathered around their Queen. Clea watched on disinterestedly as a few of the more spritely members of her entourage performed a series of choreographed backflips. Though she remained unmoved, the crowd gasped in delight.

They all turned to watch as Simon – Clea’s on-and-off-again lover who had been imported from England – walked down the stairs towards his lady. Simon was a bear of a man, overly plump, with a striking voice but nothing else going for him as far as looks were concerned. Verso supposed that his hair was nice, but that was all.

He let his mind wander as Simon and Clea shared a duet together. Verso missed his father every single day, his grief manifesting itself at the strangest moments, such as now. He had something of a pseudo-family with Lune and Sciel, but it just wasn’t the same.

The music changed, and Verso picked up the beat. He and the other male performers broke off from their feminine counterparts, splitting up on either side of both Simon and Clea. His voice rose with that of the others, his tone was higher in pitch and therefore more noticeable. He could feel Clea’s stare but paid her no mind. She was jealous of anyone she deemed a threat, and for some odd reason she picked Verso as her primary scapegoat.

He would deal with the consequences later. For now, the show must go on.

It came time for Simon to unsheathe his sword; however, an unexpected prop malfunction caused it to snap in half as he pulled it free.

There had been an uptick in the volume of minor incidents occurring during acts. Most of them had happened to Clea, but a few affected Simon as well. Rumors abounded about the infamous Opera Ghost, but Lune reassured them all that it was nothing but hogwash.

They needed to be especially careful about holding their tongues these days: the theater’s former director had retired, and his two replacements were due to start that evening. Lune was in charge of keeping an eye on them as Hannibal reached its final song.

The chorus line was sent away, and Verso was free to roam once he was changed back into his tights. Everyone around him was gossiping about Simon’s sword breaking.

“The Phantom is pissed at him!” Sciel had never been the best at whispering. Verso heard her loud and clear even across the room. “Supposedly he made fun of the organ music we keep hearing.”

The music resounded throughout almost the entire theater, most notably in Verso’s bedroom. He was accustomed to it, using the mysterious sound to soothe him to sleep at night. But it terrified the others, and he was often awoken by the newer dancers’ frightened shrieks when they first heard it.

A sharp clap drew everyone’s attention towards Lune. She stood ramrod straight before them all, her expression volatile. She was clearly displeased by the idle chatter.

On either side of her stood two men, both heavily overdressed for the occasion. One was dressed in full waistcoat with shadbelly; the other wore a buckle hat with matching shoes. They seemed utterly out of place, too serious for somewhere as frivolous as a room full of line dancers.

“Thank you,” one of them told Lune.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lune called. “Please welcome the new owners and managers of the Opera Populaire, Monsieurs Richard Firmin and Giles Andre.”

A few of the performers bowed politely. Some of the girls tittered and turned away, less they draw Lune’s ire. Verso gave a slight nod when the men gazed at him. He was slightly smaller than average, and no doubt in drew a lot of unspoken questions.

He would not bother to answer them until they were asked. Even then, it depended on his mood.

Clea bustled into the wings, looking aggravated as always. Lune introduced her to Firmin and Andre; the men bent to kiss her fingers.

“I have been lead soprano in this hellhole,” she told them haughtily, “for nineteen seasons now. You’d be wise to remember this.”

“Oh, yes,” Firmin replied, sucking up to her. “We’ve seen your performances before. It’s what drew us here, once we heard of Monsieur Franz’s retirement, we knew we simply had to purchase this place!”

Next came Simon, and the men bowed to him respectfully. “Oh, but we know of you as well! Do you think,” Andre asked, “that you could give us just a teensy tiny rendition of Think of Me? It’s always been my favorite.”

Simon cleared his throat and began to sing. As he reached the second verse, however, a rope came down from the rafters and landed squarely on his head. He was totally uninjured, but it caused him to falter and forget the lyrics.

Someone screamed that it was the Phantom, and this caused a domino effect throughout the other performers. Several people scattered; it took Lune a long while to restore order.

“Where is Joseph Buqet?” she seethed, searching about the place, looking up at the catwalk angrily. At Andre’s questioning glance, she clarified. “Our chief of the flys. He is in charge of maintenance at this theater.”

Buqet was a curt drunkard, in Verso’s opinion, who spent more of his time inebriated than not. It was apparent he was not at his assigned post, Verso imagined he was off nursing a bottle somewhere.

“What is this ‘phantom’ of which the ballerinas are speaking?” asked Firmin.

Clea proceeded to go into a drawn-out explanation of the imagined Phantom and his antics. “I do not believe in him,” she exclaimed. “I think that instead we have a little jinx in our midst. Our resident toadlet, Verso Dessendre.”

“Nonsense,” Lune hissed at her. “You talk a big game, Clea, but I seem to recall a younger version of you who also used to scatter at the slightest mention of our mischievous ghost.”

Clea colored and stormed off. “I am quitting!” she declared. “I am tired of this place, of your attitude, all of it!”

Simon stared after her for a few moments before trotting in her direction. His lumbering steps caught up just as she swung the door to her dressing room open and slammed it in his face.

Andre and Firmin looked at each other apprehensively. “Did we just lose our best singer?” Firmin asked.

“Not in the slightest,” replied Lune. “She threatens us with that nearly every week.”

Neither of the two men seemed to believe her. “What if she doesn’t come back?”

Lune huffed, annoyed at their lack of faith. “She will. If not, well, hire an understudy.”

“She does not already have one?” they exclaimed simultaneously.

Lune shrugged. “She refused,” she pointed out. “Verso!”

He had nearly made his escape, shrinking along the wall to head towards his room for the rest of the evening. He smiled timidly towards her. “Sing a few bars for us, will you? Think of Me. You know it by heart.”

“She can sing?” questioned Firmin, earning him a sharp look from Lune.

“He can sing better than you ever will,” she clarified. Firmin glanced away from her, suitably chastened.

Verso swallowed. “I don’t know if I can,” he admitted.

“He’s on the short side,” spoke Andre.

“Doesn’t change his lungs,” Lune responded. “He’s been taking lessons from a grand teacher.”

“Oh?” The men looked at each other now. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know his name,” Verso replied. “But he’s excellent. He comes to me in the middle of the night and practices with me for an hour. And for free!”

Both men rolled their eyes and scoffed. “I am feeling the pinch of buyer’s remorse,” one of them muttered to the other.

“Don’t be shy.” Verso started when he felt Sciel poke him in the ribs. “Go on. Before they open their mouths again.”

He nearly blanched under the pressure before the first lines came to him.

“Think of me.” He took a shaky breath, then continued. “Think of me fondly. Promise me you’ll try.”

Verso suspected he had missed a lyric somewhere, but figured Lune would berate him over it later on.

His voice was less seductive than Simon’s, more forlorn. He barely perceived a smattering of onlookers surrounding him as he went into the next verse.

Some of them swayed back and forth, and it made him more confident. He found his stride just as he witnessed Firmin check his pocketwatch. The gesture irritated him, and briefly he sympathized with Clea.

“This was never meant to be!” Verso burst out the words. “If you happen to remember, stop and think of me!”

He began to go across the room, winking and half-curtseying to his audience.

“There will never be a day,

Where I won’t think of you!”

He hit the note perfectly, even seeing Lune flash a smile at him approvingly. Those around him began to applaud, impressed by his impromptu number.

Distantly, from within the very walls of the opera itself, Verso could have sworn he heard a man whisper, “Bravissima…”

Chapter Text

“I have a message from the opera ghost.”

Lune’s expression was solemn, but Andre and Firmin laughed her off. She scowled and offered the note resting between her fingers.

“Here,” said Firmin with a chuckle. “Let me see the damned thing.”

In the three days since they had claimed ownership over the theater, it had been nothing but bedlam. One of the pulley systems announced its retirement midway through the early showing of Hannibal when it collapsed, bringing the thick sound-blocking curtains down with it. Next, a few of the dancers fell ill with some sort of seasonal cold and one of them was sent to hospital.

Worst of all, Clea had not returned. She packed a valise the very night she quit, and had not come back since.

So this note from the supposed “Phantom” came as only a mild surprise. Both men had been subjected to the rumors since the start of their enterprise; it only made sense that someone would see this prank to the finish line and send them a wisecracking letter.

Firmin cleared his throat and began to read aloud for his partner’s benefit:

Dear Monsieurs,

I congratulate you both on your recent purchase of the Opera Populaire. My name is unimportant as of right now, but hereafter I can be formally introduced as your Ghost, or Phantom, whichever you prefer.

I had an arrangement with our previous manager. I was paid a sum of twenty thousand francs each month in exchange for acting as stage director, chief composer and sole script writer. You must certainly have a nose for business, and therefore will recognize that for the extent of my skills this is a rather humble salary.

My only other demand is that for each and every performance – including matinees as well as evenings – you leave Box Five open. The acoustics there are far superior to that of any other location within the hall; I possess a keen ear for music and being deprived of the richness of the orchestra vexes me.

Furthermore, I have a series of strong advisements that I expect you will take into consideration.

Verso Dessendre is far too talented for the role of understudy. I propose that he should replace Simon, who should be paid in full to return to England. Clea may keep her post, should she choose to return to you.

Any questions or concerns can be directed to Madame Lune Giry.

I look forward to collaborating with you.

Firmin stared agog at the letter, his mouth hanging open.

“Twenty thousand francs a month?!” Andre bawled. “You expect us to budget that much money for someone we’ve never even met?”

Lune nodded monolithically. “I realize the price tag may seem somewhat extreme,” she agreed. “But I promise that you will have it paid back to you with interest. The Phantom has always made this place a lot of money.”

Both men blustered, but she went on, unaffected by their emotional state. “Besides, a little birdie informed me that you have a new patron. A certain Vicomte Gustave de Chagny, in fact. I have also been told that his family has been financially supporting both of yours for the past decade.”

Firmin and Andre conceded with a grimace. They knew when they’d been outsmarted.

Andre thought a moment. “What’s that boy’s last name again?” he asked, facing Lune. “The one that sung for us the other day.”

“Dessendre,” she answered smoothly.

“Huh,” Firmin finally spoke up. “Seems to me there used to be a great piano player by that name. No idea what happened to him.”

Andre snapped his fingers. “You’re right!” he exclaimed. “He was called Rene, or Renoir, or something. Can’t quite remember all the details, but I think he used to work here, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Lune replied. “Renoir Dessendre. He was with us for many years before getting married and leaving us permanently. No one has heard from him since his departure.”

Lune recounted that there used to be a young lady that visited him during the afternoon shows. “Aline,” she recalled with a fond smile. “Used to sneak in here after classes. It was love at first sight for her, though it took Renoir a fair bit of time to warm up to the idea. When they were courting, he would perform small magic tricks for her. Her eyes used to light up even over the most basic of them.”

Neither of the men were paying her any more attention. Another gentleman, this one with light brown hair and green eyes, had stepped in through the double doors.

“Vicomte!” Firmin cried. “You devil. To what do we have the honor?”

“Can it be?” Gustave de Chagny asked as he shook his friend’s hand. “Is it true that you’ve hired another Dessendre into this place?”

“We’ve promoted him to lead singer,” Andre lied before Lune could interject. “And he can dance!”

“Can I meet him?” Gustave requested excitedly.

Firmin clapped him on the back, tugging him away from a glaring Lune. “Of course, Monsieur,” he said. “As the gentleman desires. Come, come.”

Verso had been in his room when the door knocked. There stood Firmin with a well-dressed man – no doubt someone of excellent breeding – and an amiable smile. Verso held out his hand to shake it once introductions were out of the way; Gustave responded by bending down to kiss it.

Verso blushed, not sure how to react. Please do not mistake me for a woman-

“Monsieur Dessendre,” Gustave began. “I knew your father’s music, once upon a time. My compatriot here has notified me that you have a powerful voice.”

Verso fidgeted. He wanted badly to chew on his fingernails – an ugly habit from boyhood that his mother had solved when she rubbed soap onto his fingertips. “From what I’ve been told, yes,” he finally responded.

“May I ask for a private singing session?” Gustave had not let go of his hand. Verso stared at it; it was easier than looking him in the eye. “If it’s not too much trouble. I understand you must be quite busy.”

“Not at all,” Verso reassured him. “I’d love to.”

“Would tomorrow night be sufficient?” Gustave was grinning like a fool at him, Verso couldn’t help but return it.

“Of course. Nine o’clock, if you would please, sir. I have rehearsals until eight and will need time to freshen up.”

“Fantastic! I will see you then. Good night, Monsieur Dessendre.”

Something about Gustave broke through Verso’s shell a bit. “Good night,” he replied before shutting the door.

Verso sat back down at his writing desk. He had picked up writing calligraphy as an easy hobby during his rather limited free time; he dipped his pen nib into his inkwell and began to practice.

The organ music started up as soon as he was writing. “Hello, Angel,” he said as he worked.

He often dreamt of an Angel of Music that kept watch over him since he started working at the opera house. He was bullied quite often for this fantasy when he was younger; most notable because at the time he was vastly more feminine presenting than he was now. Thankfully, when he applied for his position and told Lune he was a man, she accepted it without question.

Verso sighed and continued writing. He wondered if Gustave would be that Angel for him, guiding him as he rose from obscurity.

He wondered if Gustave was his alleged secret admirer.

No, he decided. That seemed ludicrous. He would have noticed Gustave’s frequent appearances. Besides, the other dancers had already discovered that he was only there because he was friends with the new owners.

“Put down that pen and paper…” Someone hissed through the walls. Verso checked the time: eleven thirty in the evening. He was late for his vocal lesson. He was going to be in trouble.

“Sorry, sir.” He stumbled as he backed away from the desk and approached a large mirror on the opposite side of his room. The glass did not move, but he could hear a distinctive voice on the other end of it.

“Warm up with your breathing exercises, boy.” His tutor was displeased. Verso could only comply, arguing just left him hoarse and frustrated.

“Good.” The praise made Verso smile at the glass.

“Once more. In, and out. Now the scales.”

Verso went up and down them at his teacher’s instruction. He warbled somewhat on the final note, and was corrected gently but firmly.

“Again. Better now. Make sure it’s perfect.”

The lesson went on for an hour. His tutor allowed him as many breaks as needed, so long as he was not using them as an opportunity to slack off. Not that he had ever tried.

In the end, he waved childishly at the mirror and whispered goodnight to it. He had no more than turned around when the voice came to him again.

“My sweetest boy,” it intoned. “Stay away from that arrogant inamorato. He will only break your heart.”

Verso smiled, but it was fleeting. “I promise nothing,” he replied brazenly.

There was no response. He looked at the clockwork on his desk: twelve-thirty-one.

He never heard the voice once his lessons were over.

Chapter Text

The following night, Gustave appeared at the door with a single sunflower and a smattering of baby’s breath attached to it.

“Oh!” Verso took the small bouquet and placed it on his bedspread. “Thank you very much. Just a moment, let me fetch some water for them.”

He placed them hurriedly in a nearby vase and filled the bottom with a pitcher.

“What a vibrant contrast,” he commented. He hated the color yellow, but did not dare say as much in front of Gustave. He didn’t want to hurt his feelings on their first date.

It did not escape his notice that Gustave’s eyes roved over him as he moved. “Would you prefer a dance, Monsieur?” asked Verso teasingly. “Rather than a song.”

“I’d love both, if you’ll have me.” Again, that subtle bow; with Gustave placing his right arm at his navel and bending slightly at the waist, his left arm sticking out behind him.

Verso gave him his most charming smile. A Dessendre trait, his father had once told him. It’s how I charmed your mother.

He offered his hand for Gustave to take, and he did, spinning the younger man into a twirl that carried Verso away from him. Verso pointed one foot before bending it at an angle, letting the foot still on the floor turn his body.

He felt himself start to sway. He wobbled and straightened his back a little to recover, praying Gustave had not realized the error.

No such luck. Gustave caught his arm and pulled him gently upright.

“Didn’t want you to lose your balance,” he said, expression worried. Verso gave him another grin, this one bolder.

“Wanting me to fall into your arms, more like,” he joked. Gustave shook his head, but not before ducking his chin in quiet agreement.

“How about a song?” he offered, and Verso raised an eyebrow.

“From you?” he cocked his head, impressed.

Gustave pretended to clear his throat. “Little Lotte,” he began, then hesitated.

Verso knew the song, and caught the lyrics as his companion regained his confidence. “Little Lotte thought,

Am I fonder of dolls?”

Gustave huffed a laugh. His voice was terrible, but Verso loved it anyway.

“Or of goblins?”

It was Verso’s turn again. “Of shoes? Or of riddles?”

Gustave finished it, “Or fiddles? Or frocks?”

They were both laughing gaily now. Somewhere in the fray, Verso had fallen against him. Now they stood chest to chest, Gustave’s breath warm on his face.

Verso felt tipsy, though he hadn’t had a drop to drink.

“We should probably eat something,” he suggested, and Gustave stepped out into the hallway before reappearing with a picnic basket.

“I realize it’s pouring buckets outside,” he admitted. “So I was hoping you’d agree to dine in here instead.”

“Certainly,” Verso nodded.

They sipped their wine (Verso cared not for the stuff, finding it too chewy and vaguely polecat-smelling) and nibbled on a few canapes (this was more agreeable, toasted bread with foie gras). Next came dessert: puff pastry, rich with so much butter that it dripped through the wax paper it came it.

Verso dabbed his lips with a napkin. “This is delicious, Monsieur. I could not have expected a better meal, and enjoyed with such fine company.”

“Oh,” Gustave fussed with his own napkin where it sat in his lap. “I didn’t make a single thing myself. I bought the ingredients, but then I had one of my cooks assemble all of it for me.”

“Still,” Verso reached over and touched his hand. Gustave responded by squeezing it. “This is wonderful. My belly is full, I am in good spirits, and you are a fine gentleman to have gone through all this effort for a provincial young man such as myself.”

Gustave’s eyes were shiny with tears. Verso winked at him, breaking the tension. “I must retire now for the evening, I confess,” he said. “But thank you again. Shall we do this again another night?”

“Oh, yes!” Gustave shook his hand and stood up simultaneously, pumping Verso’s arm as though trying to get water from a well. “You are a lovely entertainer, my dear. I look forward to our next meeting. I could take you to a proper supper next time…?”

“Not so close to rehearsals, please,” Verso pointed out. “Lune doesn’t want any of us eating anything too heavy right now.”

“Of course. That makes sense. Well, if you change your mind, uh, here you go.“ Verso was handed the other man’s personal address. Gustave chucked him affectionately before he went.

“Adieu,” Verso told him as he walked out the door.

His watch ticked the minutes after Gustave’s leaving. It was eleven-twenty-nine.

His tutor was a minute early.

And they were livid.

“Insolent child!” His teacher cried. “A slave to fashion, with that ridiculous getup!”

Gustave had, in fact, been wearing a simple pinstripe waistcoat and dark trousers with cuff links in the shape of music notes. Verso had found it adorable.

“Ignorant fool!” His tutor continued to rage. “This brave suitor, trying to take credit for your triumph! And yellow flowers! Absurd.”

Verso felt a flash of irritation, though he couldn’t deny that Gustave should have asked about the flowers beforehand. “Please, sir,” he begged. “Not right now. I am tired, shall we begin my lesson?”

“No,” the voice growled. “Look at the mirror. But do not sing.”

It was the only time Verso had ever been instructed this way. He did as his teacher asked, noticing how the glass seemed different than it had been before. It looked less shimmery somehow.

“Sir,” Verso questioned. “What am I waiting for-“

He was not given the chance to finish the thought. He watched in astonishment as his reflection fell away.

A man stood before him, perhaps comfortably in his fifties. His salt and pepper hair carried over into a beard that seemed thick and well-groomed. A porcelain mask, plain and off-white in color, covered the upper portion of his face. Gray-blue eyes stared out from it.

The man wore a topcoat complete with cape, dark as midnight. An ostentatiously red ruffled undershirt fanned out over the lapels. His black shoes shined in the light, evidence of a brisk polishing.

He was perhaps the most handsome man Verso had ever seen.

He felt a fool, then, for ever thinking Gustave was his Angel of Music. Here that Angel stood, in the flesh, a silver fox with eyes that paralyzed him. This man’s gaze was far removed from the way Gustave had looked at him earlier. This was a look of hunger. Of passion. Of something so deep and lust-filled that it left Verso shivering.

“Angel?” he asked timorously.

The man nodded. Verso felt the overwhelming need to apologize.

“My soul was weak, sir,” he stumbled over his words. “Please, I am so sorry-“

The Angel held up a hand. “I could forgive you anything,” he responded. His tone was gruff but tender. It sounded uncannily familiar to Verso; but then again, he had been hearing it for eight years. “Here, my boy. Let me see you properly.”

He beckoned, and Verso obediently stepped over the edge of the mirror to take his hand. This, too, was the polar opposite of the way Gustave had held him: this man’s fingers were rough, callused by years of labor.

“Flattering child,” the Angel smiled when he noticed Verso’s unblinking stare. “You need only seek me out in the shadows if you are ever lonely.”

He reached up to cup Verso’s cheek. Verso leaned into the touch instinctively; it felt natural. His lips parted, and the man slipped his thumb between his teeth.

“That should quell your anxious mood,” he commented, voice low with desire. “Join me. Tonight, you shall know a grander performance than you could ever imagine.”

Verso’s face felt hot against the tender palm. It seemed as though his Angel were the only thing holding him steady. He licked the thumb in his mouth coyly; the man’s gaze sharpened.

He shivered uncomfortably when that hand left him. He entwined his fingers with the Angel’s, and allowed himself to be guided away from the safety of his sleeping quarters.

Chapter Text

Renoir tied the cape loosely around Verso’s shoulders. His poor boy had begun shivering almost as soon as their descent began - a combination of nerves and anticipation. His son seemed to appreciate the warmth, drawing it closer.

Now Verso would smell a little like him. The thought was enough to make Renoir want to ravish him right there on the steps.

He held his boy’s wrist with one hand and an oil lantern with the other. He could navigate this place without it, having spent years down here. But Verso had no instincts for it, and so Renoir knew he had to help him.

“Where are you taking me, Monsieur?” asked his son.

“Angel, my darling,” Renoir corrected him. “Call me your Angel.”

When Verso nodded like the agreeable young man his father had raised him to be, Renoir continued. “I am taking you down to my lair, in the depths below the Opera Populaire. I shall show you what a proper meal looks like beyond your overeager beau’s cheap wine and canapes.”

After a long time, they came upon a smooth-surfaced underground lake. A small rowboat rested on its shoreline. The water was not particularly deep, but it was colder than death and much easier to traverse by boat.

Renoir untied it and guided Verso onto a seat. As he took up the oars, it did not escape him that his son eyed the broad muscles in his forearms and shoulders once he began to row.

Mist at the lake’s center obscured part of the trip. They had plenty of time to converse as Renoir carefully paddled through it.

It was time for confession, with Verso acting as his priest.

Renoir was not ready.

That time would come. But for now, he wanted to absorb as much of Verso’s affection as he could, while he could.

“This feels like a dream.” Verso’s soft voice broke the silence.

“Sing with me,” Renoir encouraged. “And know that this is quite real.”

He smiled as a song ushered from his son’s throat. It was snippets of something Renoir had written years ago; Verso must have recalled it from his boyhood.

“In sleep he sang to me,

In dreams he came.”

Renoir jumped ahead of the lyrics, his more gravelly voice accompanying Verso’s sweeter one.

“And do I dream again?

For now I find…”

The Phantom of the Opera is there!

Inside my mind…”

Renoir took his turn next.

“My power over you,

Grows stronger yet.”

They finished the song together, the music rising onto the cavern’s ceiling and ricocheting off its walls.

“Your spirit and my voice!

“My spirit and your voice!

In one combined…

“The Phantom of the Opera is here,

Inside your mind!”

It was beautiful. They were beautiful. It was one of the happiest moments of Renoir’s entire life. Again, the urge to drop the oars into the freezing water and mount Verso like a stallion claimed his brazen heart.

But he stopped himself.

Patience was a virtue.

And he was a very patient man.

He was not explicitly certain when his feelings had begun. Somewhere around the boy’s fifteenth birthday, perhaps? Maybe sooner. Around whatever time he had started to noticeably fill out.

There was a shapeliness to his hips that match Aline’s precisely. His pale blue eyes belonged to his father. His gentle grin was uniquely his own, inherited from no one at all.

When he told Renoir that he was a man, his father accepted it without question and encouraged Aline to do the same.

There were differences, of course. Verso would come home sobbing, horribly upset that a tutor had scolded him for wearing trousers rather than an ankle-length dress. Renoir would hold him in his arms and soothe him before hiring a tailor to make him even more suitcoats and pants. It infuriated his teacher; not only did Renoir not care, he also made sure they were reminded of who funded their schools. Most of them fell quiet after that conversation.

He was able to tuck his emotions away, hiding his true desires from his son’s inquisitive nature. Occasionally, his safeholds would fail, and he would accidentally hug Verso for just a bit too long, or peck his lips rather than his cheek or forehead. But usually he did a commendable job at keeping everything under wraps.

Once Aline was gone, though, it felt like the last miniscule guard against his hunger faded.

He had tried to run, and failed. He found the old theater, his former place of work. The previous manager paid little attention as he began to carve away at the opera house’s underbelly, building himself a stronghold there. He hid away, and the name Renoir Dessendre became almost nonexistent.

Then he found his son wandering the streets, and his persistent need and overwhelming heartache left him unable to control himself any longer. He dropped a note onto his sleeping boy’s chest, showing him where to find sanctuary.

Renoir had yet to regret the decision. He was pleased to have his son with him once again.

At first, it had been enough that he could see Verso, that he heard him, conversed with him, taught him as he did when they were both younger.

Then the Vicomte arrived, all dick and no decorum, and Renoir knew he needed to act fast.

He wanted his son to love him, and he would do anything to achieve that goal.

Candlelight reflected off the opposite shoreline. “No electric lights,” Renoir explained at Verso’s curious expression. “Never could get them to work, despite all my attempts.”

What he did have, though, was a warm little enclave complete with several rooms and a working fireplace. It had taken ages to construct it, to fortify the walls against the constant erosion from dripping water and cold temperature.

And now he brought his most prized possession here to enjoy its domesticity.

Once they were ashore, he ushered Verso out of the boat and through the tiny foyer, intending to sit him down at the dining room table.

It was a paltry thing, far too tiny for a king and his prince. But Verso seemed not to care as he allowed Renoir to pull out a chair for him. Renoir permitted himself to stroke the back of his son’s neck with his fingers, and he saw Verso flush scarlet before shutting his eyes.

They shared a meal of roasted chicken with crispy skin and potatoes mashed with garlic. The entrée also included green beans – thrown in with the chicken and a few spices at the last minute. He poured hot coffee instead of wine, wanting his son’s head to be clear for the events yet to come.

Their dessert was what Renoir was especially proud of: chocolate-covered roses, redder than a sunset. Verso reached for the thorned stems, but Renoir waved him away. He picked the thorns from one and peeled its petals.

“Open,” he murmured, eyes darkening as Verso shyly parted his lips.

Renoir placed a petal on his son’s tongue, watching him delicately chew and swallow.

He paused, holding up the next bite. Verso obediently opened his mouth again.

This went on until two of the flowers laid stripped in the middle of the table.

“How was the meal?” Renoir asked, lightly touching his hand to his son’s.

“Thank you, Angel,” Verso whispered gratefully. “This was the loveliest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“And are you ready for the rest?”

Verso titled his head, puzzled. “What?”

Renoir clarified. “You always knew it would come to this, didn’t you? You fantasized about someone treating you this way. That someone was always going to be me.”

“Yes.” Verso fussed with the napkin in his lap. “I did. I love you, Angel. I think I have for a long time.”

Oh, but it hurt Renoir’s heart to hear the truth. He cleared his throat, struggling with his composure. Lust and affectionate both threatened to crawl their way out of his chest.

“I was always going to love you,” he responded. “I am always going to care for you, and watch over you. You’ll never be alone as long as I still draw breath.”

He rose and stood over Verso, tipping his chin up. His mouth sought out his son’s, as it had so many years before.

This time, though, despite not having all the cards, Verso knew what to do. He reciprocated, lips parting and whimpering while Renoir explored him.

“Angel,” he stammered once they had pulled away. “We do not know each other-“

Renoir shushed him, not wanting his son to ask too many questions. “Go to the wardrobe, my boy. Fetch my biggest gift to you yet.”

Verso did as he asked, letting Renoir bring him into his bedroom (their bedroom, now) and slowly undoing the latch on the cupboard doors.

It was a wedding dress, corseted at the waist and whose bottom would just about brush Verso’s ankles. No train followed behind it; instead, its most eye-catching feature were the thousands of tiny pearls meticulously embroidered into the fabric. Over the top of its hanger sat a tulle bridal veil, similarly imbued, though only at its hem to prevent it from becoming too heavy.

Upon the initial outlines for its design, Renoir had considered purchasing a set of heels for Verso to place onto his slender feet. He had decided against it: he wanted his son to stay as close to barefoot as possible, so that Renoir could more greatly appreciate their height difference. Ballet slippers would be perfectly reasonable for the proceedings.

It was not their wedding night, not yet, but it felt quite close to it.

Verso was astonished. He peered over his shoulder at Renoir, gaze watery with unexpected tears.

“I should have guessed your measurements well enough,” Renoir told him. “Would you like to try it on?”

“It-“ Verso let out a shaky breath. “This is beautiful. Please, sir, I could never-“

“I expect you to be a bride,” Renoir said insistently. “You are still a man. Nothing will ever change that. But I wish to keep you here as my spouse; therefore, you will do as I say.”

He mistakenly allowed a growl to slip into those last few words. Verso’s eyebrows raised, mildly spooked by the change in the other man’s demeanor.

“I am afraid I cannot accept your offer of marriage,” Verso tried to turn him down as politely as possible. “Flattered though I may be.”

“You will belong to me, boy,” Renoir barked. He willed himself to settle down; it would only do harm to fly off the handle in such a way. “But take all the time you need to consider the proposal. You will come back to me, night after night, desiring this world. Desiring me. I hear it in your racing pulse; I can see it in the way your body trembles at my words. We shall live in this underground haven as husband and husband, until the world above collapses over our heads.”

Verso smiled timidly, impressed by the Angel’s spellbinding way with words. “I only wish my father were here to give his blessings,” he admitted, glancing away. Those fresh tears dripped from his cheeks, plinking onto the stone floor.

“Worry not, my dear.” Renoir went to him then, embracing him and moving his neck back so that he could press his lips to the hollow of Verso’s throat. “This Is where you belong, with me and only me.”

His arms were around his son’s middle. Boldly, he started to slide them upwards towards the subtle swell of Verso’s breasts.

“No, Angel.” Verso firmly clapped his hands around Renoir’s wrists, stilling them. “Not there. Anywhere else, just not there.”

Renoir complied, leaving his son’s coat and the bindings alone. “As long as you are taking breaks with them.”

“Yes, sir,” Verso replied. “I am just not comfortable without them in the presence of others. I am scarcely comfortable without them even when I am alone.”

He then reached for Renoir’s mask, wishing to help him remove it. The older man linked their fingers and shook his head, stern but serene.

“You have your quirks, and I have mine. Trust me, darling. The mask must stay on.”

“Of course.” Verso opted to nuzzle at his chin instead.

“To the bed, my sweet,” Renoir spoke after a few moments.

They undressed each other somewhat restively, unable to refrain from touching any longer. Renoir’s hands sought Verso’s hips; vampishly dropping him onto the mattress.

Verso groaned when Renoir straddled his knees, panting. The older man had left his underwear on, but Verso could see the outline of his eager cock. He itched to stroke it, to see his well-put-together Angel fall apart from his touch alone. It seemed unbearable that he should be left a panting, flushed virgin while his paramour remained stoic.

His bindings were on, but his bottom half lay exposed under Renoir’s hungry gaze. Without thinking, he spread his legs, giving his Angel a better look.

“Good boy,” whispered Renoir, the phrase feeling necessary on his tongue.

“Are these alright? To touch, I mean.” His palm hovered above the patch of dark curls leading from Verso’s belly button down between his legs. Verso nodded and whined desperately.

“Shh,” Renoir said as he ran his hand across his son’s stomach and over his thighs. The muscles there flinched wherever he touched, he responded soothingly by massaging them dexterously.

His fingers found Verso’s swollen and dripping cunt. His index lightly grazed his son’s clit; Verso flinched. No one had ever caressed him there before.

Renoir watched him squirm, a dark thought creeping up his spine and settling pleasantly in his mind. “Boy,” he purred. “Look at me.”

Verso complied. Renoir took in the sight of him: deep flush spread from cheeks all the way down to his collarbone, the anxiously rapid rise and fall of his still-covered chest, the apparent readiness of his sex as his essence dripped onto the sheets below their bodies.

“Call me Papa,” he commanded. “Just for now. Just until this is done.”

He did not think Verso could have colored any more. And yet he did, his blush turning almost purple in the dim light.

Verso’s mouth worked, unsure how to respond. “Papa,” he moaned after a few moments. “Please. I need it.”

“Need what, dear boy?” Renoir teased. His split his middle and index fingers into a V and stroked his son’s clit with deliberate steadiness.

“You,” he whimpered. “I need your cock. Your fingers. Anything. Please, sir-“

Renoir’s fingers seemed far too big for the task at hand. But his Angel knew what Verso did not: as long as he could take those fingers, he would be more than able to take his cock as well.

And so those digits explored him, slipping into his impatient cunt before sliding back out again. The heel of Renoir’s palm rubbed against his clit. With each pass, Verso felt something build up and up and up-

He crashed down with a cry, his hips jerking as his orgasm left him shuddering.

“Good.” Renoir praised him again, lovingly kissing the inside of one knee as he gradually removed his hand. “And now, the culminating act.”

He removed his undergarments, casting them aside somewhere across the room.

For all his prior cupidity, Verso started to panic at the image of it. The older man’s erection was proud-looking, thick and blatant in its lasciviousness. A thin bead of clear fluid formed at its head before dripping down the shaft and falling away.

He wanted to touch it first, to know that it was not as terrifying as it first seemed. But Renoir batted him away tenderly and puckishly.

His son seized up the moment he aligned himself with that waiting vulva. It occurred to him too late that he was being too rough as he ploughed ahead, Verso’s maidenhead tearing away as he immediately began to thrust.

Renoir gasped, overcome with need but also not daring to peer between their legs. He suspected Verso may be bleeding, and didn’t want to think of the consequences.

“It’ll stop hurting soon,” he vowed. “I will make it all better.”

If his son were in any pain at the start, however, it quickly resolved itself. Verso keened, getting louder the quicker his Angel moved. Another climax must have found him at the peak of everything, but Renoir did not let him catch his breath. He went on, grunting and burying his face in the space between Verso’s neck and shoulder.

“G-good boy,” he stammered, his own orgasm drawing near. His tongue lathed at the point at which his son’s tiny baby hairs began to sprout. He took a mouthful in his teeth and bit down gently. “Taking me so well.”

“Papa!” Verso groaned, leaning away so that Renoir would continue kissing his neck. His hips rolled, learning the steps to this primordial dance.

“Come for me.” Renoir had that commanding tone once more. “You know you want to. Just one more for your Papa.”

Again, Verso felt a momentary sense of déjà vu. He had no time to reflect on it, lost as he was in not only his own pleasure, but also that of his Angel’s.

He was singing in a different way now; his throat reduced to shocked utterances and incoherent babbling as he was filled over and over.

He climaxed, and Renoir joined him with a pleased rumble. He felt his Angel spill into him, marking him, ruining him for anyone else. Verso whined when he pulled out; feeling strangely empty now that Renoir was no longer filling him with his spend. He whimpered and clung to his Angel, afraid he was getting up to leave.

Instead of rising from the bed to tidy up or strip the sheets, though, Renoir cuddled him closely. He pulled the duvet across their bodies, letting his arm hang heavily across Verso’s hips.

“Rest, my boy.” Renoir kissed his temple and smooth his sweaty bangs from his face. “You shall sleep so much better tonight, after the way I ravished you.”

He felt his son relax into the embrace. After a short while, soft snores began to emanate from Verso’s throat.

Once he knew his son was truly out for the night, Renoir took the opportunity to press his lips to the shell of Verso’s ear.

“You alone can make my song take flight,” he murmured. “I am always going to love you."

Chapter Text

Verso awoke to the shrill cry of a pipe organ.

The low ceiling reflected darkly back down at him, proving that the night before had not been a dream.

The duvet was the color of midnight; the satin sheets beneath felt cool and pleasant on his skin. He was nude, save for the bindings. A quick scan of the room found a cream-colored nightie draped over a nearby chair. Not his preferred manner of dress, but it would have to do.

Is this the Underworld? Verso asked himself. Am I Persephone?

If so, where is my Hades?

He rose from the bed and slipped on the nightie, deciding to seek out his new and rather rakish lover.

Candles of every shape and variety guided him through the narrow hallway and over into what sounded like a music room. Sconces, candelabra perched on metal stands, even just candles left alone and dripping wax onto the damp stone floors.

He found his masked Angel seated at the organ, playing with the same passion he had shown Verso the night prior. How the man controlled such a massive instrument was beyond his comprehension. It was an intricate piece of machinery designed to both confuse the casual observer and enthrall them with its formidable voice.

It appeared to be made of light-colored wood of unknown origin and had a series of ivory keys and buttons surrounding it. Verso could not see the foot pedals from this angle, but he was certain of their complexity. The lower ceiling hampered its power somewhat, but otherwise did not diminish its quality. It was so raucous as to seem haunting. Verso’s heart soared to listen to it.

It felt a little like being in love.

The Angel played as though before a massive audience. He did not, however, seem to acknowledge or even realize Verso’s presence. He wore a black waistcoat and white undershirt with dark trousers.

Nearly a full decade of dancing lessons had given him a light and nimble gait. Verso crept swiftly but quietly across the stone and stepped behind the older man, intent on wrapping his arms around his lover’s neck and greeting him with a kiss.

He could not have anticipated the outcome.

The mask was tied at the back with a piece of string the precise color of the stranger’s hair. When Verso made to embrace him, that string snapped, sending the mask tumbling to the floor. Due to the nature of its construction, it proceeded to break in half.

The ensuing scream froze him in place.

Verso was knocked off his feet as the man rose from the bench and made as if to strike him. The face peering angrily down at him was one he had known since infancy.

It was that of his father, Renoir Dessendre.

Verso’s mouth formed the word, Papa? But Renoir’s accusation and insults left him unable to speak.

“Damn you!” he shouted. “You little lying Delilah! You viper!”

Verso began to cry, unsure of what he had done wrong. “Papa?” He finally asked, feeling brave for doing so.

Renoir raised his hand again, and Verso cowered at his feet.

Something about the image of his son – who just the night before he had cradled in his arms as though he were something fragile and precious – settled him down. Verso seemed petrified, and Renoir was determined to make things right between them again.

He crashed to his knees beside his son, extending a hand to him. Verso’s spooked expression gazed at him reproachfully, so he retracted it. He used it to cover one hemisphere of his face, still not wanting his son to know him.

It was too late for that now, of course.

“Can you even bear to think of me?” he asked. Shame and loathsomeness haunted him like specters. “I am your father, and yet I lust for you so deeply. How could you ever forgive me, this gargoyle who reigns in hell?”

Verso took a calming breath and waited for his father to continue.

“I deserve to burn for you,” Renoir went on. “I yearn for the heaven of your embrace. Can you ever forgive me, Verso? Can fear be turned into love?”

His pale eyes beseeched the younger man crouched next to him. Verso wasn’t sure how to react. He had raised his head a bit, but was shaking with terror and refusing to move any closer.

“I beg of you,” Renoir told him. “To find the man beneath this monster. I hate myself for these emotions, and yet I cannot control them. I am repulsed by my own desires. I could never have predicted this, the way they torture me so. I loved your mother, of course. But it paled in comparison to the way I feel about you now.”

He began to crawl, a low animal scarcely deserving of affection, towards his son. He dragged his legs behind him, like a stray thing that had been struck by a carriage in the road.

“I know I seem a beast,” he whimpered. This was a side to him that Verso had never been witnessed; it frightened him nearly as much as Renoir’s wrath had. “I swear, I vow, I promise that I love you. I’ve dreamt of your beauty for so many years. What a wonder it is to see how you’ve grown; what a fine young man you’ve turned out to be.”

The mask sat only a few feet away from them both. Verso leaned away and picked up both halves, offering them to his father.

Renoir took them gratefully, their hands brushing as they parted. He fingered the jagged edge where it had broken, humming thoughtfully.

“I can repair it,” he said decisively. “Worry not. It is nothing a bit of glue and gumption cannot fix.”

Verso sighed and smiled slightly. When Renoir reached for him a second time, he did not rebuke him, instead allowing his father to gently tap his lips.

After standing and placing the mask on top of the organ, Renoir lifted Verso to his feet and kissed him almost hard enough to bruise.

“Come,” he suggested. “We must return.”

“Where are we going?” asked Verso. “I thought I was staying with you.”

Renoir shook his head. “Those two fools who run my theater will no doubt be missing you.”

As will that kochon, the Vicomte, he thought bitterly.

They ascended back into the Opera House, and Renoir ushered Verso through the mirror and back into his own bedroom, safe and sound.

He went out into the dormitory hall to find the entire place in disarray.

Joseph Buqet was terrorizing some of the girls as usual, chasing them with a noose and howling with cruel laughter.

“The Phantom got Verso!” he cried. “And soon he’ll get you too! You must always be on your guard, lest he find you and drag you down to hell! He’ll rape you there! And then hang you from his magical lasso!”

He mimed the action of hanging himself. Furious, having reached the end of a metaphorical rope himself, Verso seized his wrist and bent it backwards, forcing Buqet to drop it with a pained groan.

“Buqet,” he spat in the man’s face. “Watch your tongue. Those who speak of what they know find too late that prudent silence is wise.”

At Joseph’s puzzled and shocked look, he clarified. “It is you who shall encounter an unfortunate fate, should you continue to besmirch him.”

Buqet relented, rising shakily to his feet and rushing to gather up the rope pooled around him. “You-“ He dropped the rope twice more before readjusting his grip. “You are in cahoots with that monster!”

“Maybe so,” Verso agreed. “But it does not undo your vast stupidity. Go. Make yourself useful, for once in your miserable life.”

He watched Buqet stumble over his own drunken feet as he hastily made his way back towards the catwalk. The other dancers had calmed under Verso’s influence, and began to filter in around him, firing off questions rapidly.

Lune’s clap was like a gunshot in the crowded hallway. Everyone fell silent.

“He will see no one,” she announced coldly. “All of you, to your chambers, please. Verso, you may retire to your room as well.”

“Are the managers angry?” he guessed.

She scoffed. “Panicked, more like,” he replied. Her expression softened. “Get some rest, darling. Wherever did you get that outfit? That color suits you.”

She didn’t let him answer. Lune whisked him away and shut his bedroom door in his face.

Her maternal protectiveness had won out this night. She knew she had to face Firmin and Andre without him there.

She had to smooth things over alone.

He could never learn of her deal with his father.

Chapter Text

Richard Firmin had been reduced to hysterical laughter, the madness of the vexed. He held the morning’s post in his hand.

“Mystery after the gala night!” he shouted to a still-hungover Andre, who sat miserably with his head down on his desk. They had both been drinking since ten o’clock the night before; it was now noon the nest day.

“Mystified, so they say,” he read on. “After the flight of their new soprano! And all before that Dessendre son could even make his debut!”

Everyone in the theater suspected foul play. An overly amorous paramour, perhaps? Or was it their new patron, Vicomte Gustave de Chagny?

Most all regarded with his suspicion right then – he had been the last to see Verso alive, and there had been a two-hour window in which he had returned to his apartment without any witnesses.

Beyond that, though, he had re-materialized at the Opera House as soon as he caught word of Verso’s disappearance. From there, he had been in constant company with either Andre and Firmin or the gendarmes. He had helped tear the district apart alongside the others.

“First Clea, now Verso,” Andre complained from the desk. His voice was muffled against the lacquered wood. “We are going to lose so much money.”

For once, Firmin agreed with his old friend. “This place is cursed,” he replied. “We should just sell this damnable thing and cut our losses.”

Andre picked up his head for the first time since the morning started. “Or,” he pondered. “You know, Richard, gossip is worth its weight in gold. And none of the ticket buyers have asked for refunds just yet.”

This seemed to mollify Firmin, if only temporarily. “We still don’t have a star,” he pointed out.

“But!” Andre held up a finger. It cost him, and the room spun briefly. “Have a scandal, and you’re sure to have a hit.”

“But we have no cast!” Firmin wailed. Something caught his eye, then, sitting haphazardly amongst the rest of Andre’s disorganized paperwork.

“Ah,” he said, picking up the unusual envelope. “I see you’ve received one too. Just got mine earlier today as soon as I awoke.”

It was a letter, not dissimilar from the kind they had received upon their initial purchase of the theater. The handwriting was intricate and archaic - in a word, lovely.

And quite distinctive.

Firmin read it aloud as much for his own benefit as it was for Andre:

Dear Monsieur Giles Andre,

Mister Dessendre shall bring enormous success to your charming gala. I have returned him to you unharmed; please take note that he will require at least a full day’s rest before he can perform again. His travels and the events of the evening have exhausted him.

Just a brief reminder that my salary has not been paid. Send it to the care of the ghost by return of post before the week is out.

No one likes a debtor, and so it’s better if my orders are obeyed.

I have been writing operas for this establishment for several years, and have never once failed even in the leanest times to fill the coffers of its managers. The previous owner will validate this claim if probed; you are welcome to reach out to him.

The signature that followed was, sadly, one they recognized immediately.

“He must have quite the puerile brain to write expectant drivel such as this,” Andre fumed, beginning to recover from his hangover.

“He’s a funny sort of specter, isn’t he?” Firmin pondered. “To expect such a large retainer.”

“He’s insane,” Andre clarified, as fed up with his partner as he was with the Phantom.

“Perhaps it was our patron,” Firmin suggested savagely. “Maybe he’s sick of footing the bill.”

Andre lifted his head to shake it. “Richard, you imbecile,” he protested. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you over something so-“

They both groaned when the door to their office opened and Gustave stepped in without bothering to knock, Lune following right behind him.

“Speak of the devil,” Firmin muttered. Andre swatted at him in annoyance.

“Where is he?” demanded the Vicomte. He pointed towards Lune accusingly. “She refuses to tell me.”

“I told you, Monsieur,” she argued. “Verso is resting. He will see no one.”

“This is preposterous!” he shouted, furious. “First this incredibly peculiar note, and now Madame Giry is all buttoned up over even the simplest questions!”

“You received one as well?” Firmin questioned. “We thought for a moment it was-“

Andre swatted him again, this time with force, so that Firmin coughed and had to turn away in pain.

Gustave slapped the piece of paper under Firmin’s nose. He read it just as he had done with Andre’s letter, though this one was much more concise:

Dear Vicomte de Chagny,

Fear not for your darling Verso. I, the Angel of Music, have taken him under my wing.

Make no attempt to search him out any longer.

His heart no longer belongs to you.

In fact, I hold my suspicions that it never did in the first place.

It was the same signature.

“Verso is not with you, then, I take it?” Andre asked shakily.

Gustave’s jaw clenched. “Why would I do such a thing, drop off a series of letters demanding what seems to be – I don’t know, ransom? And then bring him back here without it?!”

“We are just as in the dark as you,” Firmin stated, before things got too heated. “We – all of us – need to get our facts straight before asking Verso about-“

Clea’s voice was a war cry, carrying straight into the room and filling the ears of anyone within the blast radius.

“Where is he?!” The demand was earth-shaking in its intensity. The still-aggrieved Andre put his head back onto his desk in a futile effort at hiding.

Firmin made to take the singer’s hand as she stormed in. “Madame,” he praised, trying to kiss her cheek. “Welcome back. We feared you would not-“

She clutched a paper in her hand; everyone in the room feared its origin. “Your precious patron sent me a note that I rather resent!”

She spat at Gustave’s feet; ever a gentleman, he politely stepped away from it.

“Of course I did not send that,” he said patiently, his prior anger dissipating. “As if I even would.”

Clea did not believe him. “You just want your dear little whore to be the star!”

Gustave tried to plead his innocence. Before he could speak, Clea - a tenacious bully from toe to tip – spoke over him. “Awfully difficult to maintain that dancer’s physique when his legs were in the air all the time-“

Lune slapped her, just once, but certainly hard enough to hurt. Clea was silenced in an instant – few people dared to stand up to her, but Madame Giry was one of those few.

“Let me see that note,” she offered, and Clea gave it to her wordlessly.

Mademoiselle Clea,

Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered, as are that of your English paramour’s.

As highly as you value your talents, I promise you they will amount to nothing as a result of your rather pugnacious disposition.

Verso will be taking over as the main star during all future performances. Simon will remain on as I could not find a suitable replacement under short notice; however, beyond that he may be shipped back to his native country with a generous severance pay.

Mister Dessendre is quite adept at playing both men and women. Additionally, his overall demeanor is far more pleasant than your own.

Should you attempt to usurp him at any showing, a great misfortune will befall you as well as Simon.

“Far too many notes for my taste.” Firmin curled his lip in disgust. “And all of them linked to the Dessendre boy.”

“Maybe he wrote them?” Andre suggested, and Lune looked as though she may strike out at him, too. Her glare forced him to curl away from her, too subdued to push the issue further.

Firmin nodded, earning himself an icy glare as well. “Seems our new star has something of a troublemaking streak.”

“He’s a wonderful young man!” Gustave argued. “How dare you stand here with your rudimentary understanding of the arts and try to accuse him of such treachery!”

“Secreting him away from us has done you no favors, Vicomte,” Firmin pointed out.

“But I told you already – it wasn’t me that took him!”

“Prove it, then.” Andre shoved a blank sheet towards him. “Let us see your true signature.”

Gustave picked up a pen and scrawled his name hurriedly. “Now as the Phantom,” Andre said.

Gustave did as he asked.

“That’s your signature?” Clea asked, baffled.

It was so apparent that the author of all their letters and Vicomte de Chagny were two completely different people.

Gustave’s handwriting bordered on illegible. It was a total contrast to the beautiful, almost poetic fluidity of their trespasser’s.

“May I go to him now?” he asked Lune.

She held up a hand. No. “As I have explained several times now, he is thoroughly worn out. He will come to you when the time is right.”

“But will he sing?” asked Firmin, money the only thing he’d ever really cared about.

“Of course,” she replied coolly. “He is resting his voice for the production of Il Muto.

Il Muto. The first program was tomorrow.

“Clea,” Firmin began, reaching for her shoulder with the caution one would give to an angry lioness. “Would you have a seat, my fair Mademoiselle? There is much Giles and I wish to discuss with you. As for Madame Giry and the Vicomte, well, you both may take your leave.”

Gustave left, only mildly comforted by his proof of innocence. Lune walked with him, making sure he was not attempting to stray towards Verso’s quarters.

“Do you think they’ll do as he says?” he asked her. “Or will they throw him aside again and use Clea to guarantee an audience?”

“I hope I am wrong,” she admitted. “I pray they will take my advice to heart. The ghost sees all, hears all, and knows all. Beware to those dottering idiots who dare to scorn his word.”

She felt the truth of it in her heart. Despite the warnings, despite the threats, Firmin and Andre were going to do what they wanted.

Lune did not wish to consider the ensuing body count.

A thousand years before – or, at least, it seemed that way – she had been close friends with a Monsieur Renoir Dessendre.

She supposed they had been friends because she was the only woman not immediately infatuated with him; in addition, when she had confessed her proclivities to him he did not bat a single eyelash. Their bond had been borne out of acceptance, even now, if these dark moments, she thought of that intelligent and courteous man that had built a home for her and Sciel without ever turning out their secrets to the other staff.

When Aline began to approach him with amorous intent, it took him ages to agree. Lune assumed at first that he was like her, preferring someone of the same sex as his own. But he seemed well enough in love once he figured out what married life was like.

Lune did not seem him for quite some time – nearly two decades, in fact. Then one night, he hammered on the door to the tiny cottage she shared with Sciel, begging for her help.

He confessed his lusts to her – things he’d never experienced towards Aline.

“Why is this happening to me?” he pleaded with his old friend. But Lune had no answer for him.

In the end, the very credence that had cemented their relationship left her open-minded enough to recognize that he was desperate. She gave him a place to stay and his old job back.

Then he came to her again, this time less emotional and more…exigent. “I have ruined my son’s very soul,” he explained. “You will let him work here as you did for me. He is a hard worker and fast learner with an exceptional temperament – you will come to appreciate this decision.”

Renoir’s words rang true again and again. Verso climbed through the ranks from background performer to understudy and, perhaps now, their breadwinner. For a long while, everything was lining up just as Renoir had promised it would.

But then he had to go and take the boy away for the night. Lune knew the blissful expression on Verso’s face – a recent virgin taken to seed by a passionate lover. She had seen that look on Sciel often enough.

Perhaps now that he had gotten everything he’d wanted, Renoir would leave the boy in peace. Then no one would fall to any sort of harm, and the theater could stay open.

Hope was a cruel mistress, though, and Lune knew better than to trust that bitch even in the brightest moments.

Chapter Text

The music box had shown up as soon as Verso returned from rehearsals.

He’d been given the entire day off after his return; for which he was very grateful. His cunt ached, a constant reminder of the previous night’s events. His shoulder wore a purple bruise in the shape of his father’s mouth. There was an abrasion on the back of his leg where he’d fallen. Even his lips felt sore - the product of Renoir’s insistent kisses.

At eleven that evening – when he’d ordinarily have his singing lesson – Lune had appeared at his door and had him rehearse his lines privately in front of her and Sciel.

Sciel had stuffed him with a late supper despite his and Lune’s protests. Then he practiced his simple dance routine and read aloud from the script. They sent him home around one, sleepy but happy now that some semblance of order had been restored in his world.

“Hopefully those two fools can follow instructions,” Sciel commented as she showed him out. “But I doubt it.”

Verso shot her an anxious look. She responded in kind by joggling his arm playfully.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

She watched the young man as he stepped out into the chilly air. It was rising summer; but the cold still tried slipping through now and again.

Lune wrapped an arm around her lover’s shoulder.

“How do you think this ends?” Sciel asked her.

Lune shut her eyes, weighing possibility against probability.

“Destruction,” she replied at last. “Le fin absolut du monde. »

Once he arrived home, Verso opened the door to his room, and upon his writing desk sat a snuff box.

He unlatched it curiously, already suspecting that he knew who it was from. He’d heard through the whispers coming from the other performers that Lune had forbidden Gustave from visiting him until things were smoothed over. Only one person had access to his bedroom, other than himself.

He wound the crank, and a soft, sweet tune played out. As he listened, he ran his finger over the gold paint etched into the wood. He mouthed the words to himself.

“Je t’aimerai toujours.”

Verso wound up the box once more. This time, having learned the melody, he began to hum it.

“I know you’re listening,” he said to the mirror. “Thank you. This was kind of you.”

No response. He went on.

“I’m not angry. But you scared me. Don’t ever talk to me like that again, father or not. I hardly deserve it.”

Still no voice echoing through the walls. No pipe organ, either.

“I wish to talk to you again. I’m not as upset as I was earlier.”

Nothing.

“Please. I miss you, Papa. I waited for you for so many years.”

He supposed Renoir was asleep.

Not a bad idea. He turned down for the night, snuffing out the candle at his bedside table, letting the darkness swallow him in a comfortable embrace.

“Our Phantom demands that Carlotta take the role of pageboy.”

Firmin was running a hand over his face, aggravated as always. At Clea’s glare, he continued. “Outrageous idea, certainly. You’ll play the Countess. Verso can play the pageboy – it’s a silent role, so his voice shan’t override yours, dear.”

Andre sat at Clea’s opposite, patting her hand. Clea herself reclined on their divan, looking like an overly spoilt child having a pout rather than a grown woman of thirty years. “Your public needs you, Clea, as do we all.”

“All of you conspire against me,” she argued. “Verso most notably. This is the just the ghost’s way of helping him and casting me out.”

“Nonsense, my sweet!” It was Firmin’s turn to pat her hand, tapping it rapidly in an expression that was equal parts frustration and reassurance. “We do not take orders from a madman. You will play our lead. I’ll speak with Madame Lune. She’ll understand.”

“You don’t deserve her!” Simon declared from his position in the corner. Clea had shoved him into a chair that was perhaps a bit too small for a man of his stature; no one was entirely confident he could get back out of it again.

Clea waved him off. “Shut up, idiot.” She never could ignore the lure of money and fame when it was dangled before her.

“We vastly prefer someone with your expertise,” Andre stated, trying to pacify both her as well as Simon. “Rather than a green doe-eyed ingénue such as the young Monsieur Dessendre.”

“Won’t you sing for us again?” Growing too bold now that Clea seemed to be more relaxed, Andre mistakenly laid his head onto her shoulder. With a single flash of her bared teeth and a huffed breath, he retreated, removing his head and giving her plenty of space.

Both men neglected to mention that they had received another notice, this one in an envelope and addressed to the Opera Populaire as a whole, rather than any specific individual.

It had not been delivered by post. It had materialized on Firmin’s desk only an hour before, when he, Andre, Simon and Clea went out to fetch a few drinks.

It did not contain any header, and was longer than the others:

A reminder:

Il Muto is to begin promptly tomorrow evening.

Clea is to be cast as the pageboy, and Verso as the Countess.

Keep box five open. The view is nothing spectacular, but the acoustics are ideal for those of us with a gift for the arts, something my managers could never comprehend.

There is no part of this place that I do not know intimately.

I love it as fearsomely as I would any inamorato. But I would burn it all to ashes just as soon as I’d protect it.

I have an endless capacity for violence, as well as for love.

You must decide amongst yourselves which you respect the most.

Should any portion of this be ignored, a disaster beyond your imaginations will occur.

This hour will see your darkest fears come to light.

Make no mistake: there will be war between us.

Chapter Text

“We shall seat you in box five, Vicomte.”

Gustave peered over at Firmin in befuddlement. “Are you sure that’s wise?” he asked. “After what-“

Firmin talked right over him. “There do not appear to be any other seats available.”

He and Andre hustled Gustave before he could protest further. I’d rather sit on the floor than risk any injury to Verso.

He still could not understand the younger man’s rejection of him. Any chance for interaction was strongly rebuked by Madame Lune; she insisted that Verso was too busy for conversation. Gustave felt desperate to speak with him again.

There was no way that note could be true. Verso did have feelings for him; Gustave just needed to hear the proof from his lips.

In addition to Lune’s watchdog mannerisms towards her favorite student, Gustave had also been subjected to Andre and Firmin’s insistence for more and more money. It was not that the Vicomte was running out of it; rather, he had the wherewithal to question what precisely his funds were going towards.

And the management rather hated it when he asked questions.

Now Gustave sat in box five shoulder to shoulder with the other two gentlemen, a pair of telescopic glasses held in his lap. His vision was slightly obscured; however, even as the orchestra tuned up he could tell the sound design at this height would be close to heavenly.

The curtains below his perch parted, and he saw Clea lounging on a divan in the center of the stage. She was laughing and carrying on with a group of unnamed background characters.

Gustave peered down at his program, uneasiness making his stomach roll. “Madame Clea as the Countess,” he read aloud, then turned to face Firmin, furious.

“How could you?” he demanded, trying to keep his voice low. Someone in the seats below them looked up at him disapprovingly. “After all those threats-“

Andre patted his elbow. “Steady, old friend,” he said. Giles was distracted, too busy staring at a voluptuous actress playing the part of one of Clea’s ladies-in-waiting. “Nothing bad is going to occur.”

“Just enjoy the show,” Firmin insisted, equally dismissive of Gustave’s concerns. The Vicomte sat back in his chair with a huff, fright and annoyance pulling him away from the performance.

His jaw worked anxiously, giving himself a headache as he observed Clea once more. She wore an elaborate wig and was fanning herself.

“They say that this youth has set my lady’s heart aflame!” exclaimed her quite literally bosomed companion.

“His lordship would surely die of shock!” replied another standing at Clea’s opposite.

“His lordship is a laughingstock!” announced a third, and all of them cackled like hens.

“Should he suspect her,” they sang in unison.

“God protect her!”

“Shame, shame, shame!”

Gustave watched with half-interest. Using his glasses, he scanned the entire stage – from curtains to orchestra pit, even to the front row – nervously watching for any evidence of foul play.

He let out a sigh of relief when Verso appeared, entirely unharmed. He almost did not recognize the younger man: Verso was dressed as a housemaid, complete with apron and bonnet. Under any other circumstances, the Vicomte would have considered the outfit endearing.

“Serafimo!” Clea sang. “Your disguise is perfect!”

The audience chuckled when they heard a knocking sound in the form of a cowbell player in the pit.

“Why,” Clea gasped in mock-astonishment. “Whoever could that be?”

“It is I, gentle wife!” Simon boomed from the other side of the stage. He was dressed as an old man; his costumer had put him into a ridiculous gray wig. “I implore you to admit your loving husband!”

Simon stumbled his way towards Clea, pretending to have a limp. A cane too small for his stature barely supported him as he walked.

“My love, I am called away to England on affairs of state,” he explained. “And must leave you with your new maid.”

Gustave recalled from his partial glimpse at his pamphlet that this was the lord’s way of discovering his wife’s adultery: he would hide himself away as he watched his Countess and her lover fool around.

Verso was sweeping with a prop broom now. His petticoat included a cage that exaggerated the shape of his hind end; it swayed rhythmically as he swept. The crowd laughed, pleased to see what the “maid” had to offer.

Simon faked a cough. “Though I’d happily take this maid with me.” Laughing dirtily, he tapped Verso’s rear end with his cane.

Even though he knew it was only a show, Gustave’s teeth ground together with jealousy. His wants extended beyond simple lust – he wished to give Verso a thorough once-over, to know that his friend was unhurt after his disappearance.

Verso jumped and pretended to cover his bottom, scrambling to fix his bonnet so that his “true” identity as the pageboy would not be revealed to his master.

“The old fool is leaving!” Clea declared, and her ladies all joined her in fits of giggles.

“I suspect my young bride is untrue to me.” Simon grumbled behind his hand. “I shall hide over there, and all shall be uncovered!”

Now Verso had parked himself on the divan beside Clea. His skirt had lifted up to reveal the cage underneath; in addition, he also wore a pair of thick tights.

Gustave’s eyes trailed up the seam of Verso’s pants towards the center. He failed to hide the dusting of pink across his cheeks; his desire for the singer apparent to anyone who bothered paying attention. He cleared his throat and shifted his weight uncomfortably.

Clea bid adieu to Simon, pulling off a high note as she vocalized and slapping away the encroaching hands of one of her ladies as they attempted to touch Verso’s bonnet.

“Serafimo,” she sang again once Simon was offstage. “You can do away with this pretense!”

Verso’s petticoat and cage were both easily dropped, along with the bonnet and apron. Now he wore a ruffled shirt that Gustave had not noticed at first.

“You cannot speak, but kiss me in my husband’s absence!”

Verso leaned over to kiss Clea’s cheek, sticking his leg out and shaking it like a dog getting its belly rubbed. Even Gustave let out a soft chuckle at the display.

He tuned out Clea once again as she started to laugh-sing a few notes, her pitch rising higher and higher. His gaze was once again locked on Verso, who was smiling dumbly and nodding along to the tune.

Should have made you the Countess, Gustave seethed. Perhaps the Opera Ghost had been correct. Verso was the better singer compared to his feminine counterpart.

The Vicomte checked back in to notice that Simon had reappeared and was shaking his fists. Just as the actor opened his mouth, however, a great voice not belonging to anyone on stage echoed throughout the theater.

“Did I not instruct that box five be kept empty?!”

It was thunderous, and its impact was immediate.

“He’s here!” A handful of chorus girls began to cry out. “The Phantom of the Opera!”

Lune materialized onstage briefly and corralled them, ushering them out of the way of the performance. Gustave could almost hear the aggravation in her voice.

It was useless. Verso was panicking as much as they were, his eyes round with terror. “It’s him!” he said. “I know it’s him!”

“Your part is silent, little toad,” Clea snarled at him, irate that his hysterics were interfering with the rest of Il Muto.

Now there was a good deal of murmuring coming from the audience. At either side of him, Gustave saw Firmin and Andre shuffle about skittishly. The Vicomte could practically read their minds: whatever were they to do, should anyone ask for their money back?

“A toad, Madame?” The voice with no clear owner boomed once again. “Perhaps it is you who are the toad!”

Clea looked somewhat unsettled now, too, her eyes darting back and forth. She shook it off after a moment and nodded towards the conductor.

“Maestro, if you please,” she indicated, uncharacteristically ladylike. “Let us continue.”

She started with the Serafimo line again.

“But kiss me in my husband’s RRRRRRRRRAAAAAAKKKKK!”

No one was sure what had happened. The croaking sound seemed to come directly from Clea’s lips. She stared at Verso, who stared back, both of them uncomprehending.

The voice laughed gaily, making both actors flinch. Gustave saw the whites of Clea’s eyes now. She faltered, took a breath, and tried once more.

“Poor fool,” there was an almost imperceptible tremble in her voice now. “He makes me laugh. Ha ha ha HHHHHHRRRRRRAAAAAAAKKKKK!”

She swallowed, sighed as though defeated, and made one final attempt. “Ha ha ha HHHHHHRRRRUUUKKKK!”

Now the voice was openly howling, delighted by her misfortune. Simon signaled for the conductor to stop playing. The orchestra fell silent, followed swiftly by the audience.

“Behold!” The Phantom announced. “She is singing to bring down the chandelier!”

Firmin and Andre vanished from the box, rushing to the stage and apologizing profusely to everyone they passed.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Firmin shouted breathlessly as he jumped onto the stage. “The performance will continue in ten minutes’ time, wherein the role of the Countess shall be switched over to Monsieur Verso Dessendre so that Madame Clea may rest her voice for a while.”

“In the meantime,” Andre huffed and puffed alongside his fellow manager. “We shall be giving you the ballet from act…uh…”

Firmin threw a program at his feet. “Act three!” Andre declared, then smiled sheepishly. “Maestro! Bring the ballet forward!”

Verso was all but dragged offstage, no doubt to be thrown into a sudden costume change while he studied his lines as best he could.

Sciel and several other dancers were shoved into the middle of things. Firmin and Andre leapt down just as the ballerinas scrambled out, circular wands held over their heads. The girls went on to display a series of synchronized twirls and plies. A halcyon backdrop shot down behind them, an image of the countryside painted onto the canvas. From the pit, the flautists started up with a wholesome and cheery ensemble piece. Next came the violins, trilling happily alongside the wind instruments.

Above the chaos rocked Joseph Buqet, snuffling and, as usual, barely aware of his surroundings. He checked the lights and bobbed along drunkenly to the tune. The strings kept hitting the same notes over and over again; they seemed to grow sharper with every pass of their bows.

Suddenly, the music was drowned out by a pair of footsteps headed straight for him. He had no time to react – something folded across his thick neck, then tightened.

Joseph barely had the chance to let out a groan before his air was completely cut off. Whoever held him dangled his pudgy body over the railing. One of the dancers spotted him and pointed, but no one was looking at her. All eyes were on her fellow dancers, who ignored her for fear of incurring Lune’s wrath. There had already been enough mistakes made that evening; another spooked performer would only make things worse.

Buquet was hoisted off the side of the catwalk, and then dropped.

His tongue was turning purple. He could not feel it. The only thing he could feel was that of his saliva getting trapped before it could slide down his throat.

Before him, the chandelier – one of the few things that brought him joy in this world, a magnificent piece of ornamentation in his worldview – fell as he did. It collapsed, broken glass ricocheting into the first few rows.

He tried reaching for the rope that dangled him above the only thing he had ever cared about, attempting to free himself. But his vision was getting dark, and his arms remained uselessly down by his sides.

It was then he realized that his neck was broken.

Distantly, he registered a volley of petrified screams. They hardly seemed important now. People were running all over the place, like tiny mice exposed by his lantern. None of them came to his rescue.

Somewhere above him, the Phantom was laughing, laughing, laughing.

Chapter Text

Verso fled.

He made his way through the wings and out into the dormitories, passing groups of terrified dancers. He spotted Firmin and Andre briefly, their shadows looming over a group of angry audience members demanding refunds. He thought he glimpsed Gustave with them, the Vicomte’s form blending in amongst the crowd.

Lune found him, at one point, but she didn’t say anything. Sciel saw him, too, and she reached over to squeeze his arm comfortingly before going to console a sobbing ballerina.

Everyone was busy or scared or otherwise distracted – it made the leaving easy.

Verso hated that he had to dress as a woman out in public, but if he was going alone it was the safest way to do things. He gathered a shawl around his shoulders and tied it – the humidity was really too much for something so heavy, but it made him feel less self-conscious about the shape of his breasts.

As an afterthought, he picked up the music box and tucked it under his arm. He wasn’t sure why; it just seemed like the right thing to do.

He vanished into the summer air, letting the click of his boots carry him towards the cemetery where Aline Dessendre had been laid to rest. The mist creeping in through the sparse trees hid him as he walked to the iron gates.

Verso slipped through narrow opening between them and crouched down at his mother’s grave. He laid the music box on the headstone and let it play for a bit.

“Father brought me this,” he said. “But I suppose you already knew that.”

He assumed he had arrived here unfollowed. But as the tune finished, he heard the distinctive snap of a tree branch somewhere close behind.

He spun with a cry of dismay, thinking it to be Renoir.

Instead, it was Gustave. He had his hat in his hands, and the little dip of his chin in apology showed that he meant Verso no harm.

He began speaking immediately, wishing to explain himself. “I had to find you,” he explained. “Had to know…after everything…God above, Verso, what is happening?”

“Don’t take me back there,” Verso pleaded. “He’ll kill me.”

He stood up slowly. Gustave rushed to pull him into an embrace born out of both amorous intent as well as fear.

The older man gripped him just a bit too tightly. Verso had a flashback to his time spent with Renoir – how his father was so intense when he was angry, but then so soft during their lovemaking. The thought of it sent his face to blushing and a shiver through his spine.

“His eyes will find me there,” he went on, voice muffled by Gustave’s coat.

“Don’t talk like that,” Gustave scolded him.

“His eyes burn right through me, Gustave. He loves me, but it’s a sin.”

“Don’t even think of it, it’s over now-“

But Verso interrupted him, the stress of the past several days pouring out of him in a rush.

“If he has to kill a thousand men, he will do it. He’ll do anything to get to-“

Irritated, Gustave dismissed him. He pushed gently but sternly away from himself. “Forget this waking nightmare,” he insisted. “And return to your job. The Phantom is a fable. It’s just some random man with a grudge against the theater.”

“That ‘random man’ has killed a person, Gustave!” Verso was aware how shrill his voice was getting. Overhead, a few crows cawed anxiously to each other.

He cupped his hands over his face, screaming into his palms. “My god!” he cried out. “Who is this man, who hunts to kill?! I can never escape from him!”

Gustave cautiously pulled Verso’s hands away from his face. The younger man was sobbing, hysterical. “Whose voice is it that you hear?” he asked quietly. “You speak as if you’ve known him a long time.”

Verso gasped, fighting against his own panicking heart. “M-my father,” he stammered. “His name is Renoir.”

Gustave froze, staring at him. “Renoir Dessendre is the Phantom,” he said.

Verso nodded. “He brought me down into his labyrinth,” he replied. “He’s in my head, all the time. Gustave, he fucked me…I love him, but it’s a sin-“

Gustave snarled and took several steps backwards. “You slept with him?” he shouted. “How could you-“

“As if the pedestal you sit upon is any higher than my own!” Verso argued. “I’ve seen the way you ogle me! Did you think I don’t notice? You’re no better than he is, in that regard!”

Gustave struck him then, just once. A hard slap to the face that wiped the tears from Verso’s eyes and left him feeling cold in the center of his chest.

Gustave swallowed, then dropped his hand down at his side. “I’m so sorry,” he began. “I never should have done that.”

He reached for Verso’s cheek, but the younger man waved him away. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he seethed. “Don’t fucking bother. Let me explain something to you, Vicomte: I went into that cavern with him. Light does not reach down that place. His eyes were the light that guided me to that bed. His voice filled my spirit with such a sweet, strange melody. I opened my legs for him. I saw his face, and I learned his name. And I did all of it willingly.”

Gustave colored, jealousy and horror rendering him unable to speak. His mind reeled, trying to absorb what Verso was telling him.

“We created such music together,” Verso went on. “My soul soared with his. He’s my Papa, and despite it all, I still love h-“

“Enough!” Gustave’s hands shook with disgust. “I understand. But what you both did was wrong.”

The Vicomte clutched his hands together. “There must be a way to rectify this,” he mumbled, half to Verso and half to himself. “Perhaps, if I can make this right-“

He weighed his feelings for the younger man. What am I willing to do to keep you safe?

Anger and jealousy and tenderness were at war within his heart. He took a steadying breath, willing himself to see the practical side of things.

“An engagement,” he said. “Perhaps if you are to be married, he would relent. Would understand that you do not belong to him.”

And, maybe with enough time, you would realize that your feelings towards him were misguided.

Verso stared at him reproachfully. “You strike me,” he began. “And then you have the audacity to ask me to marry you?”

Gustave’s emotions won out before his mouth could. “I love you,” he gushed. “Verso, we can undo this sin. If you would just-“

The singer frowned and swiped a tear away from the corner of his eye. “I needed him so badly,” he admitted. “He told me that he cared for me.”

Gustave made to put his arms around his shoulders. Verso permitted him. “That was not love,” the Vicomte explained. “That was possession. Please, darling, I can help you. But I need you to let me.”

He had on his person a small, ornately engraved silver ring. It had belonged to his father, and his grandfather before him, and so on. It was nothing more than a family heirloom, hardly qualifying as an engagement ring at all. But in these dire circumstances, it would have to work.

He took Verso’s hand in his own. When the younger man did not protest or pull away, Gustave slid the ring onto his finger.

He leaned down to kiss his palm. Verso crumpled into his arms, overwhelmed.

Gustave untied his shawl and pulled him close. “No more talk of darkness,” he murmured. “Forget these wide-eyed fears of yours.”

Verso sobbed, and Gustave rubbed his back soothingly. “I’m here,” he whispered against his hair. “Nothing will harm you. Let me dry your tears and guard you.”

The ring weighed heavily upon Verso’s finger, but he realized that this was an opportunity to escape this life. To travel down a new path, one where he did not entertain quite so many masters.

“Say you love me.” Gustave sounded as though he were begging.

Verso smiled secretly, to hide his true feelings. “You know I already do.”

Gustave gripped him a little tighter. Verso’s cheek throbbed with the memory of pain. “Say you need me with you,” the Vicomte plead. “Now and always. Let me be your shelter, your light.”

“I am so sick of grieving,” Verso confessed. He hiccupped as he fought back another wave of sobs. “I want my freedom. I do need you, Gustave. I need you to hide me.”

Both men pulled away. Gustave produced a handkerchief so that Verso could dab his eyes. “My father said he would follow me to the ends of the earth,” he said after a moment. “I believe him.”

“Let me lead you out of here,” offered the Vicomte. “I love you.”

Verso nodded, blushing, and touched the ring once more.

Gustave leaned in to kiss him. His lips were drier than Renoir’s. His hands were gentle as they encompassed Verso’s wrists.

Verso should have felt relieved. Instead, he felt cornered.

There was nothing else for it.

“Once your last performance is done-” Gustave was speaking excitedly. “Once you’ve given your notice and everything, we’ll be wed. I’ll order some of Paris’s finest horses to carry us into the church. We’ll move into my country house. You’ll love it there, it’s so much quieter than in the city.”

Verso was only half-listening. He had registered that a shadow not far from them had moved meaningfully from behind one gravestone to another.

“I’ll meet you at the door,” he promised with a kiss.

Gustave took his arm as they made their way back to the opera house. Verso held onto him gratefully, the hair on the back of his neck standing up warningly.

Behind them trailed a man dressed all in black, with silver hair and a scarred eye.

Renoir moved silently through the trees and headstones. He could be so quiet, when he needed to be.

“I made your voice take wing,” he seethed under his breath. “And now you’ve repaid me by doing this?”

He went on, tamping down his rage whilst unable to withhold his tongue. “You denied me,” he hissed. “Betrayed me. I shan’t ever forgive you for this.”

He started to cry then, swiping at his tears like a child. “You were bound to love me,” he whispered. “My only son.”

Renoir started pacing, no longer keeping track of what direction Gustave and Verso were headed in. “I cannot fault the Vicomte for his silly little schoolboy’s crush,” he mumbled. “But Verso belongs to me. I held him over his cradle twenty-six years ago, and I shall hold him again and again until he lowers me into my grave.”

His teeth gnashed together as he overheard Gustave’s laughter. He peered from behind a tree to see Verso swinging their arms together playfully.

“You will curse this day.” Covetous desire ruled over Renoir’s soul. “I should have forced you into that dress. Should have clapped you in the irons of our marriage when I had my chance.”

He watched his son leave, then retreated back to his dead wife’s grave.

Aline slept, never to awaken. Though his sorrow over her death was not as strong as the heartache that plagued him now, Renoir still mourned her.

With an exhausted and fretful sigh, he sank to the ground, and rested his head on the stone pillow. “My baby boy,” he whimpered. “Just come back to me.” He would do anything to hold Verso once more.

He recalled a memory from his son’s boyhood: Renoir at the piano with Verso in his lap, teaching him how to play. Verso grinned up at him. “Look, Papa!” he exclaimed. “I did it!”

It was from a better time, he supposed. A better version of himself.

That Renoir was gone now, replaced entirely by the Phantom.

And the Phantom always got what he wanted.

Chapter Text

Six months of Elysian peace, the managers had declared. Verso didn’t believe it by a long shot, but he seemed to be alone in his sentiment.

He stared at himself in the mirror – devoid now of any signs of his father – and fussed with the tail of his dinner jacket.

He looked rather dashing in his coat and gray pants, in his opinion. As an accessory, he had donned a fiery red kerchief to wrap around his throat.

Verso fiddled with the ring around his finger as he waited for Gustave to come fetch him. Their wedding was to be later in the year; they had spent the day prior picking out floral arrangements with his future in-laws. Verso didn’t necessarily care for them – he thought they were very self-aggrandizing and arrogant. Although no one had said anything, he could feel how both of Gustave’s parents had frowned at him, seeing him as nothing more than a stray their son had taken in as a charity case.

He imagined that they saw not just the pauper wearing well-tailored clothes, but also the dirtiness of him. The cunt already used up by someone else. The sin that stained his sheets late at night, when he was alone but wishing desperately that he wasn’t.

In those precious moments where he wiped away the spend from his thighs and washed his hands in a nearby basin, he could swear he heard organ music, distant and discordant. Once he laid back down again, however, it would fall silent.

Papa. He mouthed the words but did not speak them. Why did you leave me again?

Verso did not feel as though he were getting married. He felt like he was being loaned out.

Restless anticipation kept him pacing until his fiancé materialized at his door.

“Hello, darling.” Gustave greeted him with a kiss.

“It’s going to be so noisy,” Verso chuckled. He took the Vicomte’s arm in his. “We’ll scarcely be able to hear each other talk.”

“A masquerade isn’t meant for talking,” Gustave pointed out. He nosed Verso’s temple as they walked down the hall. “It’s for dancing.”

“Well,” Verso huffed. “I do plenty of that already. And I’m not even getting paid for it tonight.”

They arrived onstage to find that it had been transformed into a ballroom. The new chandelier twinkled merrily overhead. Dozens of people were laughing, dancing, and drinking as though it were the end of the world. Every employee at the opera was encouraged to attend.

It didn’t take long for Verso to lose track of Gustave. He was swept away by Firmin and Andre, them all but dragging the Vicomte towards some far-away table to talk business. “Even on New Year’s Eve, you shitheels?!” Verso cried, but they couldn’t hear him over the din of the crowd.

Sciel and Lune floated past him, dressed as bride and groom. Lune’s tuxedo was clearly borrowed, but she still wore it well. Her companion was darling in a set of pale-colored shoes and an elegant white gown.

“Congratulations!” Sciel called to him as both women drifted off.

Verso smiled through gritted teeth. His betrothal was meant to remain a secret; he wondered hatefully who had spilled the beans.

He was so afraid of Renoir being angry with him. That anger meant more to him than any congratulations ever could.

He hovered with a glass of champagne in his hand until Gustave came back to him. He had not returned alone.

“All the crème de la creme are here!” announced Firmin, clapping Verso on the shoulder.

Both him and Andre proceeded to launch into a litany of praise regarding the Vicomte’s engagement. Verso tolerated their fussing for as long as he was able to.

“I was under the impression,” he hissed to his fiancé. “That your proposal was to remain under wraps until closer to the summertime.”

“Why are we to hide?” Gustave beamed. “I love you and I want to prove it.”

“There’s nothing to prove!” Verso protested. “You promised me no one would find out.”

“It’s an engagement,” Gustave answered with a huff and a smile. “Not a crime.”

Verso started to work at his fingernail with his teeth until Gustave carefully covered his hand. “What are you afraid of?” he asked.

Verso shook his head, not wanting to admit the truth. “Let’s not argue,” he pleaded. “Not tonight, please?”

Gustave dropped the subject in favor of locating some food for them both. He abandoned Verso once more, who hunted down a chair and sank into it with a sigh.

It was Lune who ended up bringing him something to eat – a small platter of meats and cheeses, with sourdough rolls to complete it.

Verso took one of each and nibbled on them gratefully. “Thank you,” he smiled tiredly up at his teacher.

“Got to keep my boy in tip top shape,” she pointed out as she sat across from him.

“Do you think he’s really gone?” he asked after a few bites.

Lune shook her head. “Not in the slightest,” she admitted. “I think he’s just biding his time.”

“I was afraid you would say that.”

The two friends drank their champagne and ate their rich supper in quiet companionship for a while as they watched the revelry taking place before them. Sciel had found a new partner and was spinning the girl dizzily around the room, to uproarious applause.

“I should marry that thing, someday,” Lune chuckled. “What a dancer she is.”

“You just like her legs,” Verso teased.

The Vicomte made a solitary return about an hour later.

“Shall we dance?” he offered, bowing and extending his hand like a true gentleman. Verso tucked his plate underneath Lune’s and rose to his feet, waving goodbye as he was carried off towards the makeshift dance floor.

“Will I ever figure out,” Gustave spoke against the shell of his ear. “Why you’re so much more reserved with me, rather than with your friends?”

“I’ve known the girls longer,” Verso responded, feeling annoyed again.

“But I’m the love of your life.” They were chest to chest now, too close in proximity to be appropriate, but everyone else was too drunk to notice.

Gustave twirled Verso fast enough that a wave of vertigo struck him. Verso braced his knees instinctively, fighting off the whirlwind as his vision spun briefly. Why is this happening? He’d had a full stomach when he started in on the alcohol.

He suddenly found himself detached from Gustave completely. He called to him, shouting to be heard over the music and laughter. Nothing. Did the lighting seem darker? He searched over the tops of everyone’s heads to locate Sciel’s dress.

He spotted her just as the music stopped, and the party died with it. Not wanting to face the inevitable, Verso kept his gaze trained on the embroidered collar of Sciel’s neckline. To look away was to know there was an uninvited wolf amongst this flock.

There came a voice he had not heard in half a year. “Why so silent?”

Renoir Dessendre stood in the middle of the room wearing a vibrant red cape and suit coat with matching trousers. Atop his head sat a feathered tricorn hat of a similar shade as the rest of his outfit. His face was covered by a skeleton mask. As he spoke, the jaw moved.

“Did you think I had left you for good?” he taunted, to no response. Everyone in attendance were frozen in place, like paintings.

Renoir looked right into Verso’s eyes. The mask seemed to turn his own eye color from its usual softer blue to an ashen gray.

“Have you missed me?” he asked. When Verso did not reply, he turned to the rest of the audience.

“I have written you an opera!” Renoir announced. He threw a journal to the floor, and everyone scattered as it landed with a heavy thump. It were as though he had thrown something explosive into the crowd. “Behold! The finished score to Don Juan Triumphant.”

He went on as though nothing was the matter with his sudden reappearance. “My instructions should be clear. Follow them exactly, and no one else needs to die.”

People began backing away, some even making their way quietly towards the exit. Renoir took it upon himself to approach his son then, the only one who did not flee. Both men stood only a few steps apart, alike in their obstinance.

Verso was watching him with disinterest. “Why are you doing this?” he inquired calmly. “Why can’t you just love me in a normal way?”

“Yours chains are still mine,” Renoir warned. “You will sing for me.”

Verso nodded, finding his courage. “Yes, Monsieur, I shall.”

For a fraction of a moment, his father seemed to be taken aback by his son’s formal tone and fearlessness.

“Good, then,” he replied with a haughty set to his chin. He tossed some sort of gunpowder mixture at his own feet, and the resulting popping and shower of embers sent a few guests to running.

Verso had not moved. He curled his lip at the stink of the burnt floor wax, but otherwise remained where he was.

He became dimly aware of his fiancé’s voice. Gustave had cornered Lune and was raging at her as soon as it was over.

“You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?” he shouted.

“I know no more than you do, sir.”

“A lie!” Gustave ripped the flute from her hand and smashed it on the table. Sciel went to get between them, glaring up at the Vicomte coldly.

“I won’t let you speak to her like that,” she growled.

“You are an embarrassment,” was all Gustave told her as he stormed off.

Verso watched him go. His feet had not shifted, the lights had not grown any brighter, the world had not stopped spinning.

Sciel touched his elbow. Verso held open his arm, and she gripped him around the middle with tears in her eyes.

Lune joined them, rattled but composed. “Did you know?” was all she asked him.

“Not at all,” he answered, clutching Sciel closely. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have shown up.”

All three of them watched as Andre bent to pick up the disused journal from the floor. “He’s made this place a lot of money,” Lune stated. “And he’s gone out of his way to keep almost everyone employed. Those vultures won’t get rid of him.”

“What are you feeling, Verso?” Sciel asked. Her head rested heavily on his shoulder, but he didn’t really mind. The weight of her kept him grounded, preventing him from screaming his true emotions to the stuffy air.

“Terrified,” he answered honestly.

Chapter Text

The Phantom had given everyone an exhaustive laundry list of who needed to stay or go; dancers, singers, players, even stagehands. No one truly wanted to comply with his demands, but sometimes it was better to acquiesce and stew about it afterwards.

Clea, to no one’s surprise, was outraged to find herself on the “go” list.

“This is an insult!” seemed to be her repeated catchphrase as she lashed out at anyway who was stupid enough to stand there and listen.

The cut was particularly deep because while she had been sacked, Simon had been allowed to stay on for the time being. Fortunately for her, he had decided to stand up for her; never mind that she wouldn’t have bothered to do the same for him.

“You call this shit art?” he argued, pounding his hands on Andre’s desk. “Verso Dessendre is a mindless little waif! He does not have the voice for such a grand achievement!”

“This isn’t his fault,” Gustave told him. “He was specifically chosen for the part.”

“This is all his fault!” Simon shouted.

Verso sat outside the office in a wobbly chair, his legs stretched out before him. He closed his eyes against the cacophony taking place in the next room. His head pounded; perhaps he had drunk too much at the party.

“I am frightened,” he murmured, but of course no one heard him.

He listened to the clapping of boots against the wooden floors near the front of the theater. Gustave had summoned the gendarmes to keep them all safe, lest Renoir take offense to anything anyone said or did. The police had been tromping up and down the stage area all day, worsening everyone’s hangovers. When a few of the bolder ones had offered to stand guard at the dormitory, they were met with the unyielding ferocity of one Madame Lune Giry, and immediately backed down.

So many more notes had been sent since last night. Lune herself had one that she did not reveal to anybody, though she had given Verso some pieces of it for context.

“I do not send him my blessing,” she read. “I do not approve. Do not let my son marry the Vicomte. Or Monsieur de Chagny shall meet an unfortunate and violent end.”

That part had rattled Verso. He spent the rest of his morning lying facedown in his rooms, broody and inconsolable.

Gustave came for him at a quarter past twelve in the afternoon. “I just want to get away,” Verso mumbled from his position on the bed.

And yet he had been pulled from his melancholy and forced to sit in on this meeting. He opened his eyes again. There was a line of other employees that disappeared around the corridor; all of them potential casualties of his father’s expectations.

Simon was still going on and on.

“Our Don Juan must lose some weight!” There came a sound as though a paper was being shaken. Verso pictured Simon ripping a letter from Andre’s fingers and trembling with anger at its contents. “He resembles more partridge than patron these days.”

“It’s not healthy,” Firmin interjected quietly.

“My managers need to learn,” Simon kept speaking. “That their place is in an office, and not the arts! They should stick to finances, and I will take care of the rest!”

Verso leaned a little farther into his chair; it wiggled but held him sufficiently. He folded his hands across his chest, and stared blankly at the wall opposite to him as his fate was discussed next door.

“No doubt,” it was Andre’s voice this time. “That my lovely Verso will do his best. It’s true, his voice is excellent. But he has much to learn. If his pride will allow him to return to me…his obedient friend and guardian angel…”

“I don’t want this.” Verso slid his palms over his face. His heartbeat pulsed steadily behind his eyes. His neck hurt, and the pain traveled all the way up into the back of his skull. When he took his hands away, his vision was spotted.

“This is our ace to kill him.” Gustave was speaking now. His temper had cooled since yesterday, but his fury remained obvious. “If Verso sings, then Renoir is certain to attend.”

“Bar the doors,” he continued. “Station the gendarmes everywhere. No one leaves until the show is over.”

Then Verso heard a strange clicking sound, one he was unfamiliar with.

“Besides.” Gustave’s voice was less angry and more confident this time. “I have my own weapon, should the need arise.”

Verso flew to his feet, horrified. His own father, dead at his fiancé’s hands?

He waffled just outside the door, torn between running away again and confronting Gustave.

“His reign will end,” threatened the Vicomte. “He thinks himself clever, but no one is immune to death itself.”

“This is madness!” Even the managers sounded afraid. “This will only lead to more injury than necessary!”

Gustave ignored them. “We will turn the tide,” he vowed.

“There is no way of turning this tide, Monsieur,” Andre pointed out. “He will always have his way. The best we can do to keep everyone safe is to meet him where he stands!”

“If you really want to be useful,” Gustave hissed. “Then help me. Please. I don’t want any harm to befall anyone in this theater, but especially not Verso!”

“We cannot afford another death,” Firmin said. “Someone getting shot would ruin us-“

“Don’t pretend that you are not also an accomplice, my old friend.” Gustave spoke as though through clenched teeth. “Your ‘Angel of Music’ will know the scent of death, at my hands, if things should come to it.”

Verso could no longer tolerate just standing there and not doing anything. “You’ve seen him kill,” he stated as he strode into the room. He kept his head held high as he took everyone in: Clea and Simon sitting in heated resentment on the divan, Andre at his desk, Firmin and Gustave face to face in the middle of it all.

As always, the office was incredibly messy – paperwork all over the floor and cascading from every available piece of furniture. To sit down was to have a receipt or old playbill crinkle under one’s behind. More experienced members of the opera had learned how to avoid the paper cuts.

“He’ll never let me go.” Verso stared into Gustave’s eyes, determination and terror leaving him numb in the center of his soul.

“While he lives,” his fiancé tried to argue. “He haunts you.”

Blood from a stone, Renoir had cautioned him once. Sometimes screaming your plight to the obdurate was not worth the effort.

“He inspired my voice,” Verso replied calmly. “He kept a roof over me. Kept my belly full. Sang songs in my head.”

“I am his prey,” he went on when no one interrupted. “I have no choice but to see him again. I am a panicked animal caught in his web of deceit. And yet I cannot refuse him. Everyone here is relying on me. A gun may make you feel better, Gustave, but it does not undo anyone’s sins. Yours, mine, or his.”

Nobody spoke. They all watched Verso as though waiting for him to say something else.

But he had nothing left to give them.

Gustave had slowly lowered his gun, looking at it ashamedly.

By the time he put the safety back on, Verso had already left.

No one stopped him as he wormed his way through the line and fled back into his bedroom. He slammed the door closed and slipped the key into the lock with a comforting click.

He stood at the mirror, glaring at it.

“You speak my name,” he said. “You call to me. Worship me. How can I deny myself of your love? How could I doubt it? Is my heart as desirous as yours? Or does it belong solely to the Vicomte?”

No answer came through, not that it mattered.

“You were once my most dedicated companion. That dedication has twisted itself with your actions. I am not exempt from my own wrongs, either. I wish you were near, and yet I loathe to see your face again. I hate you for putting this burden on my shoulders.”

Verso observed the way his teeth worked at his bottom lip. A bit of skin was starting to peel away where he worried at it. “My world is shattered – and fulfilled – because of you. I would be dead on the street had you not shown me the way here, and yet it was your lust that drove me to the streets in the first place. You are my friend, my father, and my lover. I wish either of us knew which one we valued most.”

He began to cry. “I feel like a wandering child,” he admitted. “This endless longing plagues me. I yearn for your guidance and your touch. My soul obeys your every command. My heart sees you as an angel and a devil, my protector and stalker.”

He wept openly for a few minutes before gathering himself once more. “Forgive me. Teach me how to live. Papa, please. At least give me the strength to try.”

Again, nothing. Anger rolled slowly inside his gut, poisoning his words. “After this I will marry Gustave,” he declared. “And I will never see you again. This is our final goodbye.”

It was like speaking to Aline’s gravestone. Verso’s own reflection mocked him. Perhaps Renoir had been listening, and decided to take his words to heart. But that seemed like misplaced optimism.

Feeling like the entire world was against him, Verso decided to go back to sleep.

Chapter Text

Rehearsals were a slog. The Phantom had set a vigorous schedule; everyone had to give it their all regardless of their place. The dancers were pushed to their limits, but no one acquired any unnecessary injuries. On and offstage, all of the players were laid out precisely where Renoir had wanted them, the pieces on his chessboard. He was getting what he wanted.

Gustave was stewing over it, Verso knew. He continually talked down to the officers, who in turn bossed around their inferiors. Tensions were high, and morale was low.

“Are all the doors secure?” Verso heard Gustave ask one of the gendarmes.

“Are the doors secure?!” the officer repeated, indicating his footmen.

Then came a volley of voices, all from different directions around the theater: “Secure! Secure! Secure!”

“Make sure a couple of the guards have a clear view of box five,” Gustave insisted. “Tell them only shoot if they absolutely have to. If they do, however, they need it to count. They must shoot to kill.”

“We’re in your hands, Monsieur,” Andre said as he observed the proceedings.

Meanwhile, Verso traipsed out of the backstage section and headed for costuming. The matronly women there ran the place like a military ship, and they gave him no quarter as they stuck him full of pins.

Verso beheld himself in the wall-length mirror, similar to his own but much plainer in its appearance. The dress he wore was light pink with green lace accents. It was tied together comfortably by a red bodice atop a dark green front. He slipped paddock boots onto his feet; he wouldn’t need to do much dancing for this performance, just walking around and singing.

He did not love dressing as a woman for a show, but he had done it before, and the outfit’s colors were flattering against his pale skin and dark hair. The only part of it he truly despised was that his chest needed to remain unbound. He felt raw and overwhelmed without the familiar pressure against him.

He recalled one of the younger performers admitting to him how often she was overcome by stage fright. My chest gets so tight! She’d remarked. I can scarcely breathe until I’m out there in the open!

But anxiety never left him with that tightness she described. Verso’s heart wasn’t restricted. It felt like it was full of wasps, ready to sting him over and over if he so much as breathed wrong.

The entire premise around Don Juan was deception. How appropriate it seemed that he should have to bow and pretend and smile before this audience – before his father – when all Verso wanted to do was tear off this dress and shriek until he never sang again.

Maybe that would make you leave me alone, he mused darkly. Maybe you’d give up if your prodigal canary killed his own voice.

Lune stepped around the corner and watched him. Her expression was as resigned as his.

“Let the opera begin,” he said.

“Serve the meal and serve the maid,” Simon sang. “Let the lady be entangled in my sheets forevermore! She believes she dines with me in her master’s borrowed place!”

Simon donned a black cloak that covered his entire body. “Conquest is assured!” he declared.

He strutted across the stage and moved out of sight, pulling the cloak over his face and disappearing into the shadows. Verso waited for him to pass by, then slipped out onto the stage to begin his part.

“No thoughts within my head,” he began. “But thoughts of joy,

“No dreams within my heart, but dreams of love.”

He picked up a pomegranate – a real one, Lune had selected it fresh from the grocer’s only that morning – and balanced it carefully in the center of his palm, considering it. He only had a few moments while waiting for Simon to reappear, and he was to use those moments to twirl about as he carved open the fruit with a knife lying on the table. Seeds fell before he could catch them, bouncing off the wooden floor and vanishing between the cracks. The audience did not notice his fumbling. Luckily, he only needed a few for the rest of the act.

Verso heard the ruffling of fabric and turned around. Simon had returned, working his way slowly over to the table. He plucked the knife from Verso’s hands, their fingers brushing as he placed it back down.

“You have come here,” Don Juan boomed. “In pursuit of your deepest urge,

“In pursuit of that wish which ‘til now has been silent…silent…”

Verso watched the taller man pick up a goblet now, pretending to sip from it as Verso sank his teeth into the pomegranate. More seeds tumbled through his fingers, and his counterpart reached to scoop a few up and slip them into his own mouth.

Don Juan stared lustfully as Verso finished off the rest of the fruit. The other actor wore a dark blue mask now, with a pointed beak like a plague doctor. Fake sapphires sat along the bottom of the edge of the mask and sparkled with blue light, looking like the iridescence of a bird’s feathers. Verso shuddered under the intensity of the other man’s gaze.

“I have brought you, that our passion may fuse and merge…” Don Juan sat on a bench, indicating for Verso to sit in his lap. Verso refused, playfully dancing up onto the table and stealing the goblet from his fellow actor’s hands.

“In your mind you’ve already dropped all defenses and complete succumbed to me…”

Verso circled him, stepping from table to bench to floor and back onto the table again, teasingly tip-toeing his fingers across Don Juan’s shoulders. Perhaps it was the material of the cloak, but Simon’s shoulders seemed a bit thinner. Maybe he really had followed the Phantom’s advice and dropped some of the weight.

“Now you are here with me,” Don Juan intoned. “No second thoughts. You’ve decided…decided…”

Verso stole his goblet and lipped the edge of it flirtatiously, his eyes going up to meet the shadowed ones behind his co-actor’s mask. It was hard to make out their color in this light – they seemed black all the way through to the sclera. He pretended to look disinterested, boredly turning his face away as Don Juan tried reaching for him. The other man caught the hem of his dress as the last second and tugged him closer. Verso stumbled and nearly fell into him.

That was not part of the performance.

“Past the point of no return…” Don Juan was coaxing him with one mischievous finger. “No backward glances…”

He held Verso’s chin in the palm of his hand now, stroking the soft skin there with his thumb. Warring between confusion and a sudden rush of desire, Verso stared, his breath growing heavy at the touch.

He watched the other man inhale deeply. “Our games of make believe are at an end!

“No thoughts of if, but when. No use resisting,

“Abandon thought and let the dream ascend!”

Now Don Juan’s free arm had gone around Verso’s waist. He found himself between the other actor’s legs, his hands instinctively linking around his neck. The mask provided the slightest of barriers, but otherwise they were closely linked. From the crowd’s perspective, it appeared that both men had particularly good chemistry, and were totally at ease in each other’s presence. Simon’s cologne seemed more potent than usual, and Verso curled his nose at it. Beyond them, the cellos hummed broodingly, planting thoughts of sex into the minds of their listeners.

“What raging fires shall flood our souls,

“What sweet seduction lies before us…”

Verso was spun around to actually sit in Don Juan’s lap. This had not been explicitly put into the script, but what happened next had. His fingers threaded through the taller man’s, and they began a seated dance whilst facing the audience.

“The final threshold…” Don Juan’s voice nearly dropped to a whisper. Verso could feel him trembling almost imperceptibly at his back. “What warm unspoken secrets will we learn?

“Beyond the point of no return…”

Hands trailed over Verso’s breasts, stroking them, and he snarled, trying to sit up. He nearly snapped at Simon, wanting to tell him off, but those arms went around him like a vice. He had to swallow before singing his own verse, struggling to shrug off the discomfort he felt throughout his body. His voice caught on the first lyric before he recovered.

“You have brought me…

“To that moment where words run dry,

“To that moment where speech disappears into silence…silence…”

He squeezed Don Juan’s hands, digging his nails in a subtle gesture of let me go. His request was ignored.

“I have come here,

“Hardly knowing the reason why.

“In my mind I’ve already imagined,

“Our bodies entwining…defenseless and silent.”

Verso took a breath and mulled through his options. What was Simon doing? How was he to get out of this and not break character?

“And now I am here with you…no second thoughts.

“I’ve decided…”

He shifted his weight and rose hurriedly from the bench. He felt Simon scrambled for him and then fail. The other man was forced to sit back so as to keep playing his part. His eyes tracked Verso liked a hawk, predatory, as the singer skipped away with a triumphant grin.

He expected Simon to remain where he was. But instead the actor pursued him, catching up to him in a handful of strides and pulling him close once more. Surrendering, Verso leaned into his embrace now, letting himself nuzzle into the jeweled mask. His gaze locked with Don Juan’s, and he finally noticed the other man’s eye color.

Bright blue. As blue as the sapphires themselves.

The castanets rose from the orchestra pit, clicking in tune to Verso’s suddenly racing heartbeat.

“Past the point of no return…” He felt he had no other choice but to keep singing. He couldn’t see Renoir’s expression, but he was sure his father knew the game was up. “No going back now…

“Our passionate play has now at last begun,

“Past the point of right, or wrong…”

They were ensnared together; puzzle pieces, a lock and its key. Boldly, Verso slipped his hands around his father’s waist; in turn, Renoir tapped the beak of his mask lightly against his shoulder. Both of them were on the same page in that moment: I know who you are, and what you’re trying to do.

Now it was simply a matter of shuffling their cards around.

Renoir trembled against him as Verso placed a hand on his chest, the other arm still connected to his hip. “How long should we two wait, before we’re one?

“When will the blood begin to race?

The sleeping bud burst into bloom!”

They began to waltz together, both playing the game of seduction. Renoir allowed himself to be guided as Verso took control, leaning close to his father’s ear.

“Papa…” he whispered, nosing the very edge of the mask. His pelvis brushed against his father’s, and he felt that hardening length between them. The urge to take it in his hand overcame him briefly, but Verso shook it off. He wetted his dry lips before continuing.

“When will the flames at last consume us…?”

Renoir grew too daring and clawed at his son’s arm, yanking Verso by the front of his dress. The ties were clutched between his fingers, already coming undone by the violent force of his actions. When Verso tried to tear away again, he growled and gripped him more roughly.

This time, their voices rose together. Verso’s shriller notes paired nicely with Renoir’s darker timbre. Despite the pain – despite his fear – something about singing with his father felt decidedly right to Verso. It felt like this was what they were supposed to be doing, should have been doing long ago.

“Past the point of no return,

“The final threshold!”

The song hovered in the air, waiting expectantly for the next verse. The audience was silent, absorbed into the intricate display taking place onstage.

On the next line, Renoir and Verso’s voices became screams.

“The bridge is crossed, so stand!

“And watch it burn…

“We’re past the point of no return…”

On the word “turn,” Verso seized his chance to lift the mask over his father’s face and reveal the man beneath. Renoir’s lower lip worked with the promise of tears, but he held his ground as they stared at each other.

From the crowd, Gustave rose, his gun already drawn back. He dared not shoot – not here, it would surely draw a panic – but soon. He only needed to wait another few moments for a clear shot. A few people seated near him shifted uneasily, wondering why the Vicomte seemed so agitated. If any of them noticed his weapon, they made no note of it.

Renoir looked down at him, as though he sensed what was about to occur. He looked resigned. Next to him, Verso seemed frightened. From which part of this, though, Gustave could not guess.

The Phantom picked up a melancholy tone now, turning back to face his son.

“Say you’ll share with me one love,

“One lifetime.”

This was not a melody Verso had ever heard before, and certainly not a part of Don Juan. Fascinated, he remained stock-still, listening calmly to his father’s mournful song.

“Lead me, save me from my solitude…

“Say you want me here, beside you…”

Verso’s fists clenched. He held up his hand; it felt like something was missing.

His engagement ring was gone. Renoir mockingly held it in front of his face.

He had stolen it straight from his son’s finger.

“Anywhere you go, let me go too…

“Verso, that’s all I ask of y-“

Vicomte Gustave de Chagny chose that exact moment to pull the trigger. Renoir cried out and went down on one knee, grimacing and snarling like a wild animal.

Gustave fired again and missed this time. To his shock, Verso went to the Phantom and yanked him to his feet.

He was trying to help him.

Disgusted, Gustave climbed onto the stage and made to follow as Verso and Renoir turned away. The audience was frightened now, everyone scrambling for the exits and trampling each other.

The Phantom peered over his shoulder towards the Vicomte. From his deep pockets, he produced a handful of gunpowder. He dropped it to the floor, and the smoke enveloped him and his son.

Gustave coughed and felt himself get shoved to the floor. Some of the officers were running around, struggling to see anything in the chaos. Another gunshot went off, this one from the gendarmes themselves.

“Don’t shoot!” Someone called. “There’s no one there!”

The smoke cleared gradually, leaving behind a smattering of panicked policemen, Gustave, and no one else.

Verso and Renoir were gone.

Chapter Text

Now they were truly being hunted.

Unlike his initial descent into his father’s lair – gently ushered down the steps and across the lake, like lovers out for a midnight tryst – Verso was hauled this time, against his will. Renoir dragged him by the wrist, yanking whenever his son attempted to plant his feet.

“Down we plunge into the dungeons,” Renoir raged. “Down to my black despair. Down to the prison of my mind!”

He was muttering to himself, almost seeming not to notice his unwilling cargo for a few minutes. “This darkness…deep as hell…I just wanted to love him…Verso, Verso why? Why would you ever do this to me?”

“Have you gorged yourself at last for your lust for their blood, and my flesh?” Verso yelled at him. “Am I to be your prey, father?”

“You left me no choice!” Renoir appeared to realize his presence once again. “Now I must keep you bound and chained in this abysmal place!”

“Haven’t I done everything for you?” he asked. Another jerk of his hand nearly sent Verso spiraling down the stone stairs towards a broken neck. “My son condemns me to wallow in blood…and denies me the joys of his flesh…do you not love me, boy? Your own father?”

“Enslavement is not the same as love!” Verso cried. They began to argue in full now, their voices drowning out the softly lapping waves caressing the lake’s shoreline.

“There are many different kinds of love!”

“Not this kind! This is pure obsession, nothing more!”

“Do you not believe that I love you?”

“I know you do!” Verso’s voice had risen to a scream. “But if you truly mean it, prove it! Prove it by letting me go!”

He was hurled into the boat; it rocked dangerously until Renoir settled it. “There is nothing more for us to do,” the older man said. “Other than fall into this Hell of our own making, and suffer the consequences.”

Both men stared at each other, breathing heavily. Something caught their attention, pulling them away from their fighting.

A chorus of voices from above their heads, echoing:

“Track down this murderer! He must be found!”

“The Phantom is here! Somewhere deep underground!”

“Can I trust you?”

Gustave held an unsteady-looking lantern in his hand, letting the light flash a bit too harshly into Lune’s face. Their twin gazes were hostile; it was an apparent effort for both of them to remain civil under these circumstances.

“You have no other choice,” Lune pointed out. “I know where they are headed. Do as I say, or it will be too late for you to save him!”

Behind them, the gendarmes continued to uselessly shuffle around. They had discovered Simon’s body – hung, as Buqet’s had been, though not as far. The singer had apparently been almost too much for Renoir to lift; he had been draped over a pulley and left to dangle. His killer had not cared for whether or not he died, only that he was out of the way.

The audience had dispersed, horrified by the proceedings. The managers had locked themselves away in their office. Come morning, no doubt, there would be a changing of hands. Some of the employees had all been sent either home or back to their dormitories.

Not all of them had left, however. Sciel remained, stubbornly refusing to leave her lover’s side, fearing for her safety. A few of the dancers and stagehands stayed as well, grabbing whatever weapon they could find. Lune had tried and failed to discourage them.

Now she directed the Vicomte to a secret trap door near the backstage area that had seemingly been filled in long ago.

“I don’t know what the others will do once they discover Renoir and Verso together,” she admitted. “But I know what you can do. Bring Verso back to us. Please. You aren’t the only one who loves him.”

Gustave was furious with her, but he knew he had to let it go for the time being. “I’ll fetch him back,” he vowed.

“Mine the rope,” Lune explained. “It’s his favorite tool. Do not end up like Joseph or Simon.”

“You’re not coming with me?” asked the Vicomte, confused.

The ballet teacher shook her head. “I cannot,” she confessed. “I must keep the others calm. The girls are already hysterical; the mob is only riling them up further.”

Gustave looked over at her one last time. After a moment, letting himself take a handful of grounding breaths, he went down through the trap door and into the enveloping blackness.

Another mirror, this one inky from reflecting the dark ceiling above him.

A bridal veil had been thrusted hastily atop Verso’s head; he gripped it and stared at his reflection pitifully. Attempting to remove it had earned him such a strong rebuke from his father that he dared not try anything more than loathing his current situation and waiting for it all to be over.

Renoir was to return shortly with the dress he’d be expected to wear. Then there would be a ring, surely, whether it be Gustave’s or one stolen from somewhere else. Who would officiate, or what certificate would be signed, Verso did not know.

He only knew that he must accept this miserable fate. None of these choices had been his, and yet here he was to suffer them anyway.

There came a kerfuffle in the next room.

“Sir, this is indeed an unparalleled delight!” Renoir crowed. “Verso, my dear, behold! We have a visitor!”

“Gustave!” Verso spun and ran to the doorway.

He spotted his fiancé and tried to sprint at him, but was quickly stopped by his father’s hand wrapping itself around his throat.

“Now my wish comes true,” Renoir seethed at the Vicomte. “You have really made my night!”

He looked to his son next. “Your lover is going to die,” he promised.

He seemed to realize he was holding Verso a bit too tightly. His son was scrabbling hopelessly, grabbing his hand and trying to remain upright. Renoir released him, and Verso fell backwards with a gasp.

His father stared down at his own hand, as though not entirely understanding why he’d hurt his own child.

Gustave was trembling, wanting to approach but hesitating. “Do what you will with me,” he said. “But please. Free him. He’s your only son! Have you no pity?”

“I have none,” Renoir admitted. “The world has shown me no compassion at all; why should I repay it?”

“I love him!” Gustave tried begging.

“Not as much as I do.”

“Just let me see him!”

“Be my guest.” Renoir stepped aside willingly, opening his arm in a gracious offer.

Gustave caught up to Verso in three strides and fell to his knees, taking his lover’s fingers in his own. Verso nuzzled his cheek and sobbed, not daring to feel relief just yet.

“Did you think that I would harm him?” Renoir observed their reunion with disgust. After a moment, he walked away, turning his back on their swift happiness.

The Vicomte encouraged Verso to stand. He checked his fiancé’s neck carefully, looking for any signs of injury. Satisfied that Verso really was unhurt, Gustave entwined their hands and made for the door, intending to flee.

“Why would I make him pay for your sins?” Gustave was pulled backwards, a noose collared around his neck.

Renoir had leashed the other end of the rope onto a beam above their heads. Hurriedly, he dragged the Vicomte off the floor. He hung him just enough so his toes brushed the ground. Kicking proved fruitless quite rapidly - it not high enough to strangle him, but more than enough to hurt.

“He’ll die slowly,” Renoir promised to his son. “Not that it matters. Not now that we can finally leave here together as husband and wife sh-“

“No,” Verso protested. “I don’t want this life.”

“Nothing can save you now,” Renoir retorted. “Not your fiancé, not anyone. Nothing will ever keep us apart again. I swear to put a ring upon your finger, and a baby in your belly as soon as we are out of here. I will make you beholden to me, mark my words, boy.”

Verso watched as Gustave gradually turned purple, his feet momentarily finding purchase before slipping again. “Let us come to an agreement,” he bargained desperately.

Renoir stared at him, his canny gaze roving over Verso’s face, trying to seek out his deception. “I’ll start a new life with you,” his son continued. “Set Gustave free first. Then we may wed and I will remain with you until the end of time.”

His father considered the offer. Verso held out his hand to shake, Renoir responded by taking it and digging his nails in painfully. “This is your choice,” he commented, sealing the deal. “This is the point of no return. Betray me, and send your lover to his grave!”

He shoved his son onto the floor again. Verso’s head hit the stone with a thud. Blood wept onto the veil, but he was undazed by the fall. His focus remained true.

“Any tears I may have ever shed for you,” he snarled up at his father. “Of my love for you…have grown cold. They have turned to tears of hatred.”

Gustave was crying, reaching for his beloved even as his footing slid away again and he lost his breath. “Please forgive me,” he begged, wanting to make amends before he died with his beloved and his captor at his feet. “Please don’t leave with him! I’m so sorry I did not do enough for you! I am so sorry for not trusting you, for not believing you!”

Neither father nor son seemed to pay any attention to the Vicomte, too absorbed in their own spite to acknowledge him right then.

“Farewell my idol,” Verso was saying. “And false father. I had such hopes that you may have genuinely cared for me.”

“It’s too late for turning back,” Renoir answered. “Too late to uselessly pine for your pretentious two-faced suitor-“

“Shut up!” Verso was standing, struggling to undo the knot around Gustave’s throat. Their height difference meant that he was scarcely able to reach it at all, his efforts worthless.

“Your cries for mercy are pointless.” Renoir was speaking to Gustave this time. “No matter what Verso chooses, you cannot win.”

“Say that you love me.” He had come between his son and the Vicomte, blocking Verso’s reach. “I’ll untie him. Just speak the words.”

“Cut him loose anyway,” Verso replied. “Because you are my father and you are supposed to love me. If you want me to be happy with you, then do as I ask.”

“But I do not care for love, as you so helpfully stated before our interloper arrived,” Renoir nodded to the struggling man hanging beside him. “I will possess you, this I guarantee.”

“Gustave did nothing to deserve this-“

“Why make him lie to you?” The Vicomte demanded. “To save me?”

“You both try my patience,” Renoir growled. “Make your choice, child. Me, or him.”

“My angel,” Verso was trying to circle his father, putting some space between him and Gustave. He did not know all the tricks up Renoir’s sleeve, only that his intentions were malicious. “You’ve deceived me. I gave my life – my mind and body, all of it – blindly.”

“Blindly?” Renoir blinked. Suddenly, his knees failed him. The older man collapsed, his legs curled beneath him like an unborn animal.

He’s been shot, Verso realized. He had seen the blood earlier, but presumed it to be something minor.

His father winced and sat back, wanting to keep his weight off his injured leg. Verso fell to his side, placing a cautious hand to where the blood seeped into his trousers. Above them, Gustave still scrambled, but he was tiring and the rope was winning out against him.

All of them were panting, caught up in their combined hatred as they tried to figure out what was to happen next.

Any moment, Verso was going to lose both of the men he cared for most in this world.

Overcome with despair, Verso began to sing.

“Pitiful creature of darkness,” he crooned.

“What kind of life have you known?

“Give me the courage to show you,

You are not alone!”

His emotions took over before his forebrain could. Verso clutched his father’s bearded face and kissed him roughly. Love was blind, he supposed, and he could either accept his feelings for his father or let them consume him.

Renoir fell into those emotions at the same time as his son, breaking for air momentarily before letting Verso guide him into another kiss.

They both chose acceptance over consumption.

When it was over, they remained locked in each other’s arms, their matching blue eyes taking stock of whatever sat between them now.

Renoir stepped back and fetched a candle from the wall. He lifted it to the now twisted rope and let it burn away, dropping Gustave to the ground.

There came a thundering of footsteps from the lake – water sloshing over legs rushing towards them all.

They had been found out.

Renoir registered that he was most likely doomed.

But it didn’t need to be that way for his son.

“Go!” Renoir shouted. “Forget me! Forget all of this!”

He yanked the Vicomte upright once more and shoved him at Verso. “Take the boat!” he said. “Lie to the others. Say that I hurt you, and you escaped! Swear it to me, Vicomte!”

He turned to his son next. “Tell them,” he swallowed. “Tell them that you never really loved me. Say you were forced into speaking those words. They’ll believe you, I’m sure of it.”

When Verso hesitated, his voice ascended to a hoarse scream. “Go now and leave me!”

“This creature must not be allowed to go free!” someone was calling out on the other side of the wall. “We must trap him down in his lair, where he belongs!”

Gustave threw open the door before the mob could come any closer. “We’re here!” he waved to them frantically. “It’s all right! Monsieur Dessendre is unharmed!”

Verso helpfully kicked the door closed as they ran away. Renoir knew it would be torn down before too much longer, and the fate that awaited him as soon as it was.

He passively limped over to the pipe organ and sat down. He played a sorrowful tune, almost too quiet for such a large instrument. He hummed to himself, letting his soul fall into the song.

Renoir wasn’t sure how much time passed. No one came to arrest him, no one seized him and permitted him to face the release of sweet death.

The sound of a single pair of footsteps made him lift his head up from the keys. There stood Verso, the music box held in his palms.

Renoir’s heart leapt, thinking his son had returned for good.

Verso came around to his side of the bench, sitting next to him. He placed the snuff box in his father’s hands; together, they turned the crank and allowed it to play.

When the song ended, Verso leaned down and placed his lips on Renoir’s fingers. A sob escaped him; Renoir shushed him soothingly.

“Verso,” he whispered. “I love you.”

His son broke down. They clung to each other, frightened and mournful.

“Say for me to follow you,” Verso murmured. “And I will do it. No more talk of who belongs to whom or anything of that sort. Let me share my life with yours.”

You already did, for twenty-six years, Renoir wanted to tell him. It’s someone else’s turn now.

In the end, though, he merely nudged Verso away from the organ and nodded for the door.

“It’s not safe for you to be with me,” he said.

“Papa?” Verso looked to the doorway and then back at him, unsure.

His father waved him off. “Orpheus,” came his reply.

Verso recalled a story Renoir had taught him many moons ago: that of Orpheus and Eurydice. A man taken over by love, unable to come to terms with his own grief. He had surrendered to his own obsession. And, as a result, cursed both him and his beloved wife to their misfortune.

The message was clear.

Do not look behind you.

Verso closed his eyes and left, this time for good.

Renoir sat amongst the wreckage of his self-induced solitude. He patiently waited for the sounds of someone rowing to fade before falling into the song he had been composing only moments earlier.

“You alone could make my song take flight,

It’s over now,

The music of the night!”