𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You're destitute and homeless after tragedy took your parents, and one cold autumn night you finally follow Carlotta's voice into the Opera House...

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: The reader's ignorance when it comes to how bad Carlotta sings, lol.

𝔄/𝔑: So I know I haven't updated this book in FOREVER and it's because I have a heck ton of One-Shot books I bounce between based on who I'm currently obsessed with/what ideas are popping into my head. I went through a Phantom fever early 2022, hence this book's inception, but I've been pulled away by my Top Gun fanfic and other one-shot books. I still love Phantom though and I'm gonna try and update here as much as I can. Requests are open again so leave them in the comments or message them to me and I'll see what I can do! Sorry for leaving y'all hanging, hope you enjoy this peace offering that's been floating around my head for a while! 

PS: let me know if you want a part two to this or not. 

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰: 3680

❀ * ❀ * ❀

𝔄𝔣𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨, you found yourself huddled against the wall of the great Opera Populaire. The autumn evening bared its teeth and sank them through your threadbare layers. Shivering, you wrapped both arms around your body, and pressed your cheek as flat as possible against the stone. That's when you heard her. La Carlotta. The play had finally started, and the Prima Donna was on the stage, bellowing her song for all the wealthy to enjoy. You found yourself molding against the Opera House, hoping for a clear snippet of the music. Sadly, the busy nightlife of Paris drowned out Carlotta's voice. In one ear, carriages rattled by and drunkards' warbled cries met the harsh rush of wind. In the other, the orchestra and singers joined to worship the arts, overpowering the sliding of pulleys and subtle scratching of props being rolled about. Oh if only you had stronger ears, or the Opera House had thinner walls. You raise a cold palm to the stone and draw yourself along the wall, following the sound of Carlotta's voice...

"Ah—"

You stumble and catch yourself on a railing.

The back door.

Tonight's audience would have entered by the majestic staircase and through the pair of embellished front doors. Workers would have used this. A plain little entrance. Golden light spills through each crack in the wood and it runs like a river of sunlight down the steps, beckoning you in. The air is very very cold, and you have nothing but a many years old coat that's frayed beyond repair. Even now, you feel the chill setting in your bones. It's either find a fire, and worry about who or what it might attract, or slip inside the back of the Opera House to warm up a bit and listen to the show.

There's no use debating.

You've already darted up the steps.

For the first time in your life, you're seeing the inside of the Opera Populaire and it's just as you imagined. The backstage may be your only view, yet it steals your breath like a rug from under your feet. You drift away from the back door, gawking at the wooden walls, floor, and ceiling. There's so much wood. But there's color too. Costumes and props hang from hooks. Chairs and crates hold velvet capes and old crowns. A two dimensional horse rests in the corner, propped on his hind legs. A disbelieving laugh bubbles in your chest and you swiftly cover your mouth with both hands to keep from drawing attention to yourself. Wherever the workers are, they've vacated this hallway, and it's all yours.

For now.

Smiling from ear to ear, you creep further into the backstage. Your eyes can't stay still. They flit like nervous birds from one thing to the next, urging your feet to keep up. Best of all, you can hear the music clearly! The violins are furiously sawing away, creating a playful yet anxious aura that contradicts the ease in Carlotta's voice as she speaks to her secret lover of a disguise. Now that you've made it inside the Opera House, your heart longs to catch a glimpse of the stage. To see the actors and dancers and orchestra pit would make you so happy, that if you fell ill in the streets tomorrow and died, you could die content. Oh, to see the play you've daydreamed a thousand times. One of many. Ever since you were little, you wanted to see the Opera, if you couldn't be in it. And then...your father died at war and your mother of a broken heart and none could take you in, so you fell victim to the Parisian streets.

Everyday, you stop by the Opera House and stare at the posters at the foot of the stairs.

For a month, Il Muto has taunted you.

And now you're finally hearing it.

From within the Opera Populaire!

An excited squeal bursts out of you before you can think to stop it.

Gasping, you cover your mouth again and hurry forward. If someone did hear you, they'll probably go to where you made the sound. You run for safety, unaware of the shadow lingering only a few steps behind, carefully following you. After a few seconds of fearful sneaking, you end up in a corner where there's a winding metal staircase and at the very bottom, a dish filled with a strange white powder. Curious, you bend over and swipe a finger across the surface.

"I wouldn't eat that if I were you."

You gasp a second time and fall right over.

A voice!

It came from...from...

Nowhere!

Panic eats at your heart as you drag yourself away from the center of the corridor. Your back thumps against a wall, and you immediately curl up, frantically scanning for the owner of the voice. It is clearly a man. His voice is deep as the sea. Or as deep as you'd imagine, given you've never left the city. It booms like thunder and has you shaking, just as you do when it rains, and you're out in the open air, exposed to the elements. It may be like a furnace inside the Opera House, but your fear has shivers scraping at your spine like fingernails.

Just when you're beginning to think that you imagined voice, he speaks again.

"Are you so hungry that you would eat a strange white powder?"

"N-no," You stutter in response — and against your better judgment. "I-I-I w-wasn't going to e-eat-t it...I just...w-w-wondered wh-what it was."

"Chalk. For the ballerina's ballet shoes."

"Oh."

That makes sense, you suppose.

"What are you doing in my Opera House, and why do you shake like a little mouse, cornered by a cat?"

His Opera House! So he is one of the owners? You hug your knees closer to your chest to stop shivering. Perhaps the man is above you, standing on the ledge that the staircase leads to. How could he know I'm shaking? You wonder, as another quaking fit rattles your entire body. If he had looked over the edge, you would've seen. You suppose he could have guessed from your voice that you were trembling so, and yet, you doubt that is the reason. You feel positive that his voice is coming from some secret passage or room, and that both excites and scares you. If he is the owner of this Opera House...or a manager at the very least...why hasn't he emerged to drag you out or throw you to the police?

Many men have threatened to do so at the sight of you.

Dirty and pathetic.

Not a good look for such a grand establishment as this.

"I...I was cold, and...I wanted to hear the music."

The man is silent.

In the distance, Carlotta is singing again.

A hollow laugh echoes throughout the chamber. "That is not music, little mouse. That is the great cat. La Carlotta. She could not tell music from the retching before she coughed up a furball. I am sorry to disappoint you."

Now that he mentions it...you do notice she sounds...

Off.

Dramatic. Screechy.

Still, you knew no better, having missed out on a proper education and immersion in the arts.

You tell the voice as much, hoping he'll forgive your ignorance.

La Carlotta may not be the pinnacle of musical beauty that you thought, but there are others on stage, lifting their voices, and perhaps most enchanting of all are the instruments accompanying them. The blare of horns; the string's sonnet; the trill of percussion and piping of flutes. Sighing, you rest your cheek atop your knee, tilting one ear towards the symphony.

"The orchestra sounds lovely..."

As the singing dies down, the instruments rise to the occasion, carrying you away. Your eyes flutter shut as you soak in the sounds, knowing this may very well be your only chance.

The music nearly hides the creaking floorboards and whoosh of a rope.

Nearly.

Remembering the voice, and your current position as a trespasser, you startle and open your eyes. Standing before you, is a man swaddled in darkness. Your head snaps back, striking the wall as your heart comes down from the surprise. The man wears black from head to toe. He is robed in a magnificent cloak that tickles his ankles and turns up at the collar, framing the defined cut of his jaw. Although your heart races and you grasp at the frayed ends of your ragged breathing, you can't help but succumb to the spell the stranger casts. He's unlike anyone you've ever seen. One half of his face is obscured by a mask, the other absolutely perfect in its visibility. His skin is porcelain, yet not so light as to clash with the white of the mask. His brow is dark, his hair raven like the cloak draping his shoulders. In the dim light, you can only assume his eyes are blue, for they seem a crystalline silver. The mask misses his full lips, which curl downwards as he studies you, pensive and uncertain.

"Would you like to see the orchestra, little mouse?" He asks, his voice every bit as smooth and rich as when you could not see him.

"Y...yes, Monsieur, I would—"

An arm emerges from underneath the cape.

The masked man offers you his gloved hand.

You long to take it, yet you hesitate. This is not the first time a man has tried to whisk you away. On the streets, you knew only misfortune would come of it, but here, inside the Opera House your survival instincts have grown numb; tamed by the wonder of it all. Only now does your doubt return to combat your reckless desire.

Your hesitance is testing the masked man's patience.

He raises a brow. "Or would you prefer I show you out?"

Definitely not.

Outside it is cold and dark.

You take his hand, trusting that he intends to show you the orchestra and nothing else. The masked man closes his fist. The black leather crinkles and stretches like a shadow swallowing your frail hand. Then, he draws you to your feet with a single pull. It takes you by surprise — his strength — and by some miracle you catch your balance before plummeting into his chest.

"Come."

He leads you towards the winding stairs. Hand in hand, you step over the dish of chalk, and steadily advance to the upper level. As he guides you along the narrow paths, you notice more costumes and props. There are even paints stacked against a wall.

Everything you pass amazes you. Even the mundane, such as a half empty bottle. The masked man grips your hand firmly, but not unkindly, and tugs you along. At the end of one corridor, he prods open a secret door. Your breath catches in your throat as he leads you inside the hidden room. No — secret passage! A smile spreads across your face as he gently reaches around you to shut the door. His front grazes your shoulder, and little sparks fall like a spring shower over your body. Perhaps he's felt them too. Why else would he stop and glance at you in the dark? There's little light here. Not enough to make out each other's faces anyways, though you try your hardest to determine his expression.

"Who are you?" You murmur absentmindedly.

The masked man's hand falters.

"If you take such an interest in the Opera Populaire...surely you must know who I am."

"The owner?"

He is silent.

So you guess again.

"One of the managers? I heard there are two new ones."

"I am neither."

You frown, "Then...who could you be? You said this was 'your opera house—'"

"It is mine."

The insinstance hits you like a thunderclap. His melodious voice hardens. Its intensity takes you aback, but his hand holds you fast, keeping you from running. Marking his criticism of your shaking, you tense your shoulders and grit your teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction, though fear stirs in your heart.

"Tell me, little mouse...have you not heard of the Phantom of the Opera."

You gasp.

Yes.

Once, very long ago, you heard a tale of the demented ghoul who haunts the Opera Populaire, catching women in his magical lasso and hanging them from the rafters. He sings to his victims, a man told you, as he strangles them. They say he lives in the walls. A ghost, torturing the estate, though no one knows why.

"You — b-but...they say the Phantom has no nose and y-yellow s-s-skin b-but you're—"

The Phantom's hand rises to your wrist and he yanks you forward, leaning his lips to your ear. "I'm what," He hisses.

"You're handsome."

The words tumble off your tongue carelessly.

You regret them, but they were no lie. Yes, the mask is odd, and you wonder why he should need it, but you naturally assumed it was a costume. A flare of the dramatic fit for the theater. It may hide half his face, but the half you can see is positively stunning. Most of the men you've spoken to are haggard, dirty, and foul mouthed. They smell of rum and shit and haven't all their teeth. The Phantom's face is clean shaven. His skin is unblemished, his hair properly brushed and styled, and from what you have seen, his teeth are in perfect condition. Not only is he clean, his appearance has charm. He walks with an air of mystery. There is symmetry in his figure, from his broad shoulders to large, leather clad hands. Any lady would consider herself lucky to be caught alone in the dark with such a man...

If he were a man.

He is the Phantom.

Phantom he may be...but he is certainly no ghost.

The hand he has curled around your arm is proof of that.

"...you find me handsome?"

You nod, forgetting he cannot see.

He must see well enough in the dark, for he chuckles bitterly, and raises his other hand to cup your chin. "You are the first, little mouse."

"Surely...Monsieur, you lie—"

"I am a ghost. None look upon me. And those who do, find too late that prudence is wise, little mouse. Surely, you have heard tales of the Phantom's magic lasso, with which he hangs women from the rafters..."

You know the stories. You also know that you should very well fear for your life, which rests in the Phantom's hands. Yet, you cannot bring yourself to fear this man — for that is all he is. A man. Strange and dark, yes, but not a monster. For all the rumors, making him out to be a murderous appirition, the Phantom is a better man then any other you've met. Few people would look at someone like you and offer to show them something beautiful; something undeserved. You are waste on the side of the road; an ugly, dirty woman who begs for bread and sleep in alleyways. Noses turn up at the sight of you, innocent children wanting to give you coin are bustled away by fretful mothers. You see so many Parisians, day in and out. Men, women, children. The wealthy, the working class, and your fellow homeless. You've seen bakers and seamstresses, writers and politicians, and all of them scorn you.

All but the Phantom.

He has not mentioned your smell, nor your unwashed hair or oily skin.

"You offered to show me the orchestra..." You whisper. "If...if you wanted to kill me...you could have done it where you found me..."

"Perhaps I was tricking you."

His tone betrays him.

How can he expect you to believe that, when he doesn't believe it himself?

"I..." You pause, and stead your voice. "I do not believe you would."

The Phantom's hand falls from your chin.

"Believe what you will," He steps around you, leading the way towards another hidden door. "Come, little mouse, or we will miss the Second Act."

A new sense of urgency spurs you onwards. Like a gentleman, Phantom holds the door for you. You flash him a nervous smile. His face quivers. A flinch? He looks like a puddle when a stone is dropped. Your smile forced ripples of emotions across the bare half of his face. You duck through the doorway, embarrassed that a simple kind gesture could cause such a reaction. Has no one smiled at this man? He claims no one has ever called him handsome. That few even lay eyes on him. Surely that cannot be true. The Phantom is a living being, who requires food, water, sunlight, and friendship. Could any man survive without the latter? As the Phantom leads you through the final passage, you begin to wonder about his mask. Perhaps, it is not a costume afterall. Maybe he's hiding something.

Hiding his face.

Himself.

And that is why he lurks below the Opera House and spreads ghost stories to protect his secret...

What could possibly be underneath that mask that would drive a man to such extreme isolation?

"Through here, little mouse."

Phantom opens the door...and music floods your ears. Pure music. You gasp, drifting out into the light of the chandelier. It hangs from the center of a dome over the stage. The place the Phantom has led you to, is a narrow overlook, encircling the perimeter of the dome. Looking over the edge, you can see the backdrop, separating the stage from what lies behind, and beyond the orchestra pit, you can see the audience nearest to the stage. Your heart swells at the sight. There is so much color here, you feel as if someone has drowned you in a rainbow. Red curtains, pastel dresses and frocks, pink cheeks and lips and powdered faces — your mind cannot keep up with it all as dancers and singers prance about the stage, condemning La Carlotta's character for her infidelity and calling the husband back home to discover the Sin. Oh everyone is beautiful in their costumes! They twirl freely as a breeze in the spring, they move like water, and you find yourself gripping the railing and swaying to the melody. Your attention scatters, picking up bits and pieces of the performance.

The acting, the song, and oh the orchestra! What a heavenly chorus they are, playing in perfect time with one another. The joyful noise breathes life into your lungs.

You smile and sway to the violin solo. The conductor waves his baton, immersed in his task. The other musicians sit at a rest, tapping their feet, turning pages. As the illicit affair climaxes, the husband returns and the horns leap to announce it. They overpower the violinist, who's bow sags across the string in an eerie descending scale and all of a sudden, the orchestra is together again, singing doom and exposure to the world. Fear for the characters stirs in your heart. You are anxious for them, even if they are wrong and deserving of their discovery. Still, the music plucks your heartstrings just right, and manipulates your feelings.

How your heart races as Carlotta and the actor playing her husband argue through song!

"You feel it," a voice whispers into your ear. "You feel the music, too."

You were so absorbed in the play, and the Phantom was so quiet, you did not hear him approach.

"Music is a feeling..." You murmur breathlessly.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the Phantom smile. "Few understand music in all its complexities." His gaze meshes with yours, "Few truly feel it."

You blush.

His gaze is far too strong for you. The passion with which he speaks of music and feelings set a fire in your stomach. No one has done that before. No one has understood how much music means to you, nor how deeply and keenly you feel it. You may be poor and homeless, lacking education and the refinement of a proper young lady, but once upon a time, you took piano lessons. For a year, you studied, played, and experimented with the keys and the sounds. Every note to you was a color. A season and shape and try as you might to describe such thoughts, not a soul could understand. Your love of music and piano grew daily, only for war to rob it from you. The war took your father, heartache took your mother, and bankruptcy took your beloved piano...

But nothing could steal your passion for music.

It has been dormant within you, waking when you heard the Opera House come alive, but never has it stirred for a person.

The warmth in your chest reaches for the Phantom.

His smile reaches back.

"Where do you live, little mouse?"

You look down in shame. "Is it so hard to tell?"

The Phantom sighs softly.

"Have you no family?"

"No," You bite your lip to stop the tears. "No one. Nothing."

Tonight has been so lovely, you nearly forgot the depression you must return to. The cold, empty streets. Alone and hungry. The last hour has been such an adventure, you thought maybe —

Maybe it would last forever.

You will treasure tonight.

The music, the secret passages, and perhaps most of all, the mysterious Phantom who spared your life and gave you the greatest gift of all.

Music.

Even if only for a while.

"I...should go," You mutter, once the curtain falls.

You can't bear to face him, so you turn to leave —

"Little mouse?"

You halt.

The applause thunders all around you, echoing off the domed ceiling. It is a wonder you are able to hear the Phantom over the raucous.

"Stay here. It is dangerous for a woman to be alone on the streets at night. The air is cold. You will fall ill without shelter. Stay here, and I will show you the tunnels beneath the Opera House. You will hear music whenever you like..."

He pauses.

"If you should like...to stay."

You're crying.

Crying and you didn't even know it.

You turn to face the Phantom and find his desperate eyes searching your teary-eyed gaze. You sniffle, and accept his offer with a timid nod. For the first night in many years, you will sleep under a roof, warm, safe. Alone no longer.