𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: After a chance meeting with the Phantom of the Opera, he leads you to his lair to house you from the cruel streets...

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: None!

𝔄/𝔑: Sooooo finally did a Part Two as requested! I experimented with implementing elements of the book by Gaston Leroux and things I've heard from the Susan Kay book, Phantom. But it's still Gerard Butler's Erik (aka Gerik), the *cough, cough* best *cough* Phantom. ANYWAYS - here's the one-shot I promised. Can't garuntee I'll add much to this book for a while at least, cause I've got my hands full with my Top Gun Fanfiction and planning it's sequel. If you also like Top Gun, check that out! But until then...onto the one-shot!

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰:7654

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𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔱𝔥 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔱𝔞𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔟𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔒𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔞 𝔓𝔬𝔭𝔲𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔢. Perhaps you were wrong to doubt. You see, as the Phantom led you through a trapdoor to a maze of dimly lit passages deeper underground, you could only imagine the two of you would wind up in a vast dungeon, decorated in cobwebs and cold drippings of sewer water and mold. The candelabra-esque sconces lining the path you took had long since forgotten the spark of flame. Dust had gathered in thick ropes around the tarnished metal body. The chipped stone walls, damp floors, and constant appearance of rats frightened you so that you clung to the Phantom's gloved hand, strangling his fingers. He held a torch to light the way, and spared you a kind glance now and then. If it weren't for him, you would have fled to the streets. At least there was light; fires set by the fellow homeless; street lights; lanterns; and the cold body of the full moon hanging above the Opera House until sunrise.

Your fear proved faulty.

Before long, you reach the top of a grand set of stairs. Here the sconces are lit. Their flames echo off the walls, illuminating each step descending towards a gorgeous white horse. That's right, you recall. The Opera House has a stable. They must keep the horses for plays, and others for the manager's coach. How then had this one come so far below? You wonder this aloud, and the Phantom is quick to put your mind at ease.

"This is Cesar. He stays with me now."

"You stole him?"

The Phantom lays a hand on Cesar's flank, gently stroking his satin coat. The leather is an eyesore against the soft creme tufts of fur.

"This is my Opera House, little mouse..." The Phantom remarks. "I may take anything I like. There are countless other white steeds in the stalls above. Cesar won't be missed."

"Y-yes...of course..."

You had almost forgotten that this was his Opera House. How that may be astounds you, but you sense the topic is a tender one, and therefore you hurry away from it, lest you anger your host. The Phantom has been altogether too generous tonight, refusing to harm you, taking you to see the play, offering you to stay underground in his secret abode. You do not take such an honor lightly. Few would think to invite you anywhere. They would turn their nose up at your stench, close their eyes to your unruly state. No one cares for the desolate.

None but this masked man, masquerading as a ghost, who claims to own an Opera House that as far as you're aware, is not his. He is a strange man indeed, but there is something about him that ensnares you. Is it the luscious roll of his voice? Perhaps the attractive features he's left uncovered. They taunt you to no end. You're surprised he hasn't noticed you staring open mouthed at the cut of his jaw.

"Come, pet him. He will not bite..."

Trusting him at his word once more, you lift a hand from your skirts and hover it over the horse's neck. His muscle ripples the closer your hand drifts, and Cesar tosses his head with a sudden snort, causing you to squeak in alarm and trip back into the Phantom's arms.

"Do not be afraid...he will know."

It takes a moment for you to realize he's speaking of the horse.

You aren't afraid. Nervous, certainly. Your heart flounders for a proper pulse as the Phantom coils a single arm around your waist while his free hand guides your bare palm against Cesar's neck. The hair slips through your fingers like fine silk. It's coarse, and yet your skin is soothed by its caress. A laugh of disbelief bursts from your lips. So this is what horses feel like? You have not pet a horse since you were a girl...those years feel like eons. You place your other hand on Cesar, stroking his coat eagerly. It almost feels like home. The Phantom's hand slips to the crease of your elbow, lightly cupping the curve of your thin arm. If it weren't for your shawl, he'd feel straight to the bone. No food, no flesh. You've survived off of a single meal a day, some days, not even that. There's no chance of you ever looking anything like the girls on stage tonight; plump and pretty. Silly how women of class starve themselves to fainting for a smaller waist, while you struggle to keep enough weight to stay alive...

Oh what a joy to be fat.

Cesar whinnies in agreement.

You laugh, your true laugh this time.

Behind you, the Phantom lets out a chuckle of his own. You feel the rumbling within his chest as it rattles the prominent links in your spine.

"Can you ride, little mouse?"

"I...I cannot."

Something warm ghosts your cheek and you glance over your shoulder only to recognize it as the Phantom's smile, curling against your skin as his face hover beside yours. A sudden fever rings your head like mountain fog and you're glad for the Phantom's arms around your waist when you begin to waver, assaulted by a multitude of odd sensations in your abdomen. It's...pleasant...like music piercing the soul, but it catches you off guard. A startling emotion, reminiscent of fear. And yet, you are decidedly unafraid of this feeling. You miss it the moment the Phantom's face disappears behind you.

"Grasp his mane. Hook a leg over his back when I say."

The cold plunge of your stomach is gone the second you blink. A flurry of the strange sensations return as the Phantom drops down. You gasp as you're hoisted up onto Cesar's back. The Phantom gives the sign, and you clench the silver mane in your hands as you throw one leg over the dip of Cesar's spine. Your knees notch against the withers as you wriggle your butt into a comfortable position. Phantom keeps a hand on your leg — a most improper thing for any man to do. Since when did you mind what was proper or not? You live an improper, sinful life, as most would say. You're already breaking a thousand rules by following a strange man alone to his house.

By all means you should not trust him.

And yet...

You do.

"Hold his mane," The Phantom instructs. "I shall be just ahead, there is quite a ways to go yet..."

Quite a ways to go indeed! You do as you're told and firmly grip Cesar's mane, but not too hard, as you're afraid to hurt the animal. How odd it must be for a horse to have someone perched on your back, grabbing your hair. You brush the thought away as the Phantom leads you through a thousand corridors, all twisting and turning, branching off of one another like pipes. Over time, you relax into the rocking motion of Cesar's steps, allowing your hips to shift in an unladylike fashion, back and forth to the sway of his spine. It's quite comfortable, actually, and you find too late how much you enjoy riding Cesar when you halt at the edge of a strip of water.

An underground canal, complete with a boat!

The Phantom steps away from Cesar's halter and stretches his arms towards you. His enormous cloak falls away, exposing the droopy linen sleeves jutting from his tailored waistcoat. You blame the hitch in your throat on the distance between you and the ground. The Phantom glances at your white knuckled fist, clasped around a thick wad of Cesar's mane. His lips twitch at the far right corner, tucking a dimple behind the rim of his porcelain mask. He's smiling at your unease, and it causes you to scowl. You were mistaken in assuming he might apologize. The Phantom may not be the monster of legend, but he is certainly cruel in his own, human way. Laughing under his breath, he bares his perfect teeth in a bemused grin.

"You are a little mouse, aren't you, mademoiselle...you follow a ghost to his dungeons and still you do not trust me?"

"I do, Monsieur!"

The Phantom beckons you to him. "Then pray, fall into my arms. I will catch you."

Catch you he does. You stifle a cry as you slide over Cesar's stomach and drop into the Phantom's outstretched arms. His strong embrace cushions your fall, but you grab his shoulders nonetheless, only brave enough to open your eyes when he lowers your boots to the floor. You trust the entirety of your bodyweight to the balls of your feet and peel open both eyes suddenly. The Phantom's face is much closer than anticipated and you embarrass yourself by recoiling the moment you're brave enough to look. A shadow dances across the Phantom's face. Darkening his ocean irises. Your heart winds itself into a knot at the drastic shift in his expression. Only a minute ago he was smiling against your cheek and gently holding your arm but now he struggles to mask a frown. His eyes seem empty. Drained of the charisma he's worn so proudly. He's a ghost of many colors. A tricksy poltergeist; a ghost of comfort, like the specter of a loved one left behind to accomplish a final good deed; and the dangerous sort that speaks from the walls to scared peasants in the back of an Opera House.

His latest robe change carves air from your lungs.

A despondent, lonely ghost. The wailing type that frighten the living with their undying grief.

Your heart jolts — along with the rest of you, as the Phantom roughly detaches himself from you. He turns away, carefully stepping towards the boat. As he climbs in, you feel something nudge your shoulder. A furry snout appears in the corner of your eye and begins to nibble at your dress, leaving a snail-like smear along the weather worn fabric. Laughing you turn to cup Cesar's nose. His muffled snort of affection tenderly detangles your heart. For a moment, you forget the Phantom and lose yourself in gentle strokes down the slope of Cesar's face; fondling the plush texture of his lip and nostrils, the latter flare with every soft coo you utter. What you wouldn't give to keep a horse with you on the streets; one just like Cesar, kind and affectionate, though, perhaps a darker shade. He'd be less likely to be seen and coveted that way.

"We don't have all day."

"Oh!" You let out a startled cry, having completely forgotten him. "Sorry, Monsieur — I was distracted."

Turning, you catch the Phantom's fond smirk as he studies Cesar.

"Cesar has a knack for distracting. He is sorely missed by the Opera goers. When his white flank was seen, Carlotta's shrieking could almost be forgiven."

You bark an unladylike laugh, and promptly flush crimson.

Oh, how the streets have unhinged you.

The Phantom doesn't seem to mind one bit. His smile widens as he extends a gloved hand and beckons with the fluid curl of two fingers.

"Come, Little Mouse...my home is not far."

You step forward, but pause, glancing over your shoulder.

"Monsieur...what about —"

"Have no fear, Cesar is as much a sewer rat as I. He knows which passage leads to his warm bed and dinner."

In that case, you pat Cesar goodbye and accept the Phantom's outstretched hand. He helps you find your footing and watches you sit down at the helm before untying from the dock and pushing off the stone with an enormous paddle, almost as tall as Cesar. The water pops its mouth around the oar, and off you go, sailing gently along the aquatic-catacombs of the Opera Populaire. For a while, you content yourself in silence so the Phantom can focus on steering and your eyes wander, picking out strange statues and embellishments of the stone walls. They're so narrow, it's a mystery how the boat fits through them, especially on the turns. More than once, you squeak in terror, gripping the sides of the boat as the sudden shift of direction rocks the hull. Behind you, there is a ghost of a laugh and you swear the soft utterance of 'oh little mouse.'

After the last of the sharp turns, the boat enters a wide canal. You sit quietly now, listening to the drip of moisture from the walls, the woosh of stale air as it teases the sconces. Some part of you is repelled by all you've seen. What man lives in the dark, dripping basement of an Opera House? Why go through all the extent of a secret — stolen — horse and a water passageway? There's a smell in the air. A nasty, wet sort of smell like mold or mildew that has your nose wrinkling even as your eyes stay peeled in wonder. Despite the natural disgust you feel, your amazement wins out. Though all you've seen so far is both bizarre and...damp...there's a certain magic to the cobwebs and leakages; a fantastical air to the murky water and the mirrored beads of flame racing across the restless surface.

Revolting or amazing, you're grateful to be here, rather than the streets.

Even if only for the night.

A sigh passes your sealed lips.

Across the passage, a single note, clear as day but rich and ruthless as the night sky, rings out. It breaks into a second note, and a third, and a fourth. Your sharp intake of breath couldn't be heard over the song. The music echoes in your core, spreading like crawling fingers over the rest of your body, leaving a trail of tingles. True music. The embodiment of music. Every note, every vibrato coming from the lips of the Phantom behind you. You listen in rapture. A sort of film begins to coat your eyes, recreating the scenery of a submerged palace of gold. You cling to the threads of song, finding yourself simultaneously awakened and soothed by the rolling baritone. His voice is heavenly and surreal, yet tangible enough, that you feel it on your tongue; taste it even. What it tastes of, you can't say.

You haven't tasted anything remotely lovely in forever...

But if you were the finest lady in all of Paris, there would be nothing as succulent as the Phantom's song.

"You have a beautiful voice, Monsieur..." You whisper once the song has retreated shyly to the back of his throat, where it rumbles in a soft hum.

The humming pauses, "Do you sing, little mouse?"

Yes...You sigh. Singing is all you have to do most days, sitting on the side of the road, waiting for a generous hand to drop a coin. You sing well enough...or so you thought, before an angel burst forth from the Phantom's lungs. Yesterday, you fancied yourself talent, today you're not so sure. Uncertain of how to respond, you muster a humble,

"Not very well I'm afraid..."

"I do not believe it." The Phantom objects.

Harshly.

Suddenly.

Like a wild animal spitting fury from fangs. Your shoulders tense. He almost sounds as if he's defensive.

"You have music in your soul..." he murmurs, just loud enough for the walls to hear and repeat it back. The echoes send shivers down your spine. 'You have music in your soul.' If the very walls say so, it must be true. Smiling, you turn to thank the Phantom for his kind words, but you stop, half twisted over your shoulder, as the Phantom seems deep in thought, grinding his jaw, staring with clouded eyes dead-ahead. You open your mouth to ask if all is well, when he suddenly hums with such vigor and finality that your brows shoot up in surprise. "You have potential. Music, untamed music, and a love of it, in your soul...and I will teach you to breathe it out..."

Your jaw drops. "Monsieur! You — you are too generous already—"

"I am," He smirks, taking you aback. "But I am in a generous mood. A rare thing, mind you. I warn you now to stay in my good graces while you can...I do want to help you, little mouse but you must know I have my flaws."

"I wouldn't expect any less, you are a man, afterall."

The Phantom presses his lips together, brow bent, heart troubled.

You sense a shadow drift over the conversation and for a moment, you feel as you did backstage, huddled in a corner as a disembodied voice called out to you; you feel afraid.

"I am not who you think I am, little mouse."

"But...you are kind—"

"Not to all," He growls.

You glance at the bottom of the boat. "But you chose to be kind to me...why?"

The Phantom lowers his gaze to yours, taking only a fleeting second to examine the earnest plea of your eye before swallowing a reply and nodding to the horizon. "We've arrived."

The cavern parts its mouth, revealing a significantly wider chamber than any other you've passed through. There is light enough to trick the eye into believing dawn has come.

Candelabras, sconces, and tall candle-pronged tridents of stainless gold shimmer and shine on the rocky alcove. They illuminate the entire cave, sparkling across the dark water, catching the minerals peeking through the stoney crags and setting them ablaze. Your eyes grow hotter the further they pop out of your skull. They seem to melt right down your cheeks as you're suddenly able to process the color among the gold and gray. Rich velvet drapes, rugs and cushions of red and black; there is an organ on one side of the large stone ledge and a piano on the other. Huge mirrors, their frames detailed with numerous scrolls, lean against the back wall, reflecting the ripple of flame and water. You watch, entranced, as the reflection of the boat and those in it, pass through each mirror's surface until the helm clonks against rock and the sudden rocking motion jolts you out of a stupor. Gasping, you lean forward and grip the sides of the boat.

Wood creaks behind you.

A throat clears, followed by a timid, "If you wouldn't mind..."

Oh! "I'm sorry!" You cry, scooching as close to one side of the boat as you can so that the Phantom can carefully step around you. He leaps with the grace of a deer from the bench to the dock, where he grasps the rope and winds a knot around a metal hook. Then, he leans towards the helm and once again, his hand emerges from the depths of his cloak. Something between a smile and an 'o' of surprise plays on your lips as you set foot for the first time on the Phantom's underground house.

It's even more spectacular up close.

The Phantom gently steers you from the water's edge. In a manner both tender and nervous, he sets a hand on your shoulder whilst maintaining a hold on your right hand. His chest presses against the arc of your shoulder blades as he stops you.

"Welcome to my home, Little Mouse...it is yours as long as you need it."

"It's...beautiful, Monsieur, thank you."

The crack in your voice has the Phantom shifting uncomfortably behind you.

"I will show you everything tomorrow...but first," he lets go of your hand and comes around to face you. "You must be hungry."

Your stomach lets out a bellow of affirmation that has you barking a laugh. A grin curls into the Phantom's cheeks — well, the one cheek you can see. His shaking shoulders have his cloak swirling around his ankles like a lady's skirt. Your own patch-work, moth eaten excuse for a dress wobbled pathetically as you smother your loud, and very probably unpleasant laugh into the back of your hand. You never learned how to laugh properly. Lady's are expected to be refined in good and bad spirits.

You're never refined. Everything you feel or think is loud enough to be heard miles away. Your mannerisms have never mattered before...but now that you're in the presence of a man, you feel self conscious about your conduct. He's been so kind, you're sure he wouldn't comment if your laugh bothered him. Still, you can't help but worry. Although, something about the way the Phantom smiles at you as he laughs so silently, you almost wonder if he doesn't quite know how, makes you believe he could care less about how unladylike and loud you are. Perhaps he's thinking the same thing. Afterall, he's the one hiding half his face. He's the one who owns this Opera House, yet isn't a part of the Opera management...not to mention he lives under it. Like a rat, hiding from a large, marmalade cat.

"I will make you dinner. Soup, I think...due to your lack of consistency in meals, anything too hearty might cause nausea."

"Soup sounds lovely," You reply, still picking apart his matter-of-fact tone.

His explanation sounded quite scientific, an odd thing for a Phantom to be. It's delightful. No one has spoken to you so intelligently before. It's always a quick, sympathetic word, prayer, or a scoff and a 'Get your grimy hands away from my frock, vermin!'

"Dinner may take a while, in the meantime, you may want to bathe."

"Oh," You murmur, glancing down at your tattered clothes, smeared with dirt and who knows what else. A whiff from under your arms frightens even your nose. "I'm terribly sorry, Monsieur for bringing my uncleanliness into your lovely home...I'm dirty and I smell horrid...and all this time you've — oh I'm so horrible—" Tears well in your eyes, blurring all the color and light around you into a marble of gold and red and white that only makes your chest ache. You feel like a roach. Ugly and unwanted. So so ugly. Smelly, revolting 'vermin,' just as they always said. Your knees go numb as you cover your face in your hands, only to find them sticky with sweat and dirt.

"Oh Little Mouse..."

Leather kisses your hands and pulls them from your eyes.

Sniffling, you stare at the floor.

How on Earth did you think yourself worthy of this man's efforts? He may be strange, threatening and mysterious, but he is still a well groomed gentleman. You are a street mouse. A taint on society. A cloud of dirt in the middle of his perfect little house.

The Phantom tilts your chin up, "I did not mean any offense. I was merely suggesting that you might enjoy warm water and some privacy..."

"Oh."

So you worked yourself up over nothing.

Smiling ruefully, the Phantom blots the tears from your cheeks. "You are certainly dirty, but your clothes do not reflect what kind of person you are. I cannot see a stain on your heart. That is why you are here," He hesitates, and adds, "We are alike in more ways than our love of music, Little Mouse. Our world is a cruel one. They judge what they cannot understand, what frightens them. The unattractive realities of life bring out the evil in their porcelain hearts. But we must be strong and steadfast."

"And kind," You nod.

"We must look after each other."

His general speaking seems to have narrowed quite a bit. You allow yourself to believe he means the two of you as he shows you to the washroom.

"I have no clothes for you, but I shall buy some tonight, after you eat."

"You have a job?"

"I am an artist, but the managers pay me rent. 20,000 franks, annually."

You stop, dumfounded.

20,000 franks!

"Monsieur!" You exclaim breathlessly. "You're rich!"

He pauses in a dimly lit doorway and furrows his brow, "Well, yes, I am."

The two of you step into the washroom, one after the other. Bubbling with curiosity, you pursue the riddle of these 20,000 franks.

"So you know the managers, then?"

"Yes," The Phantom strides towards a shelf of towels, unfolding one and draping it over a wrack near the large, ivory tub in the corner of the small room. "Although we've never met. They're very busy."

With an entire Opera to run, of course they must be busy. You do however find it odd that he gave them management without meeting them. Shouldn't there be some sort of interview? If I ran an Opera, you think, sighing wistfully at the idea, I would want to know who's running my beautiful estate personally. I would want us to be friends, to trust each other. Instead of prying in that direction, you ask, "Do they mail the checks?"

"Mail them? Where? To the basement?"

You laugh.

He bends over the tub.

Your laughter breaks off as water pours from a metal tap. Plumbing, a new way of accessing water, has only recently evolved in France. The pipes are expensive. Only the wealthy have it in their homes. Poor folk must use buckets from the rivers or pumps and heat it to boil. But this water is from a faucet, and it's hot. You dip your fingers under the flow and jerk your arm back as the water scalds your skin.

"You must be rich."

"I am. But I did not buy the plumbing. I put it in myself. A better system, I think, than what those fools above have made. I thought to sell my invention, but—"

He catches himself.

"Who would buy anything from a ghost," the Phantom remarks, an undertone of laughter glossing over his recovery. Smiling tightly, he goes about setting your bath. You watch patiently from the corner of the room, wondering why he'd be so hesitant to speak to an interested party about his plumbing system. You know full well he is not a ghost. Too many parts of him have touched you, whether in a subtle brush or the intentional wiping of your tears, for him to be immaterial. He certainly lives like a ghost, a lavish one; creeping through hidden passages, frightening peasant girls and then whisking them away to his caverns. A ghost in his lifestyle, but not a ghost at all...why then would he deny himself more money, and such a success as a sold patent?

There is only one reason that you can think of. You whisper it once he's left the washroom for an extra pair of pants and a shirt.

"The mask..."

Yes it has to be. When he returns, your eyes immediately go to the concealed half of his face, studying the sculpted white material. Despite the contrast of color, the mask could almost blend perfectly into the lines of the Phantom's face. You've glimpsed wealthy couples stepping out of carriages on their way to masquerades, and none of their masks have ever been so detailed, so human. The gentle arcs of the mask remind you of Michelangelo, and how he breathed life into marble. La Pieta. You remember seeing it once...as a child. But the memory is tainted, yellowed by time in your head, and now you can only vaguely associate the mask and the sculpture.

"These are all I have for now, I brought a belt, so the pants will fit—"

"Did you make your mask, Monsieur?"

The Phantom goes rigid. A nerve in his neck pulses as he abandons the clothes and turns to face you, "What makes you think that...Little Mouse?"

A shiver flies down your spine.

He hasn't used that tone with you since the secret passage to the dome, when he revealed himself as the dreaded Opera Ghost. His voice was frightening then too, yet you pushed back against his threats and look what good came of it? Hugging both arms around your body, you fumble for the right words.

"I-I only th-th-thought since y-you're so good at m-making things...perhaps you m-made it yourself? It...it is very beautiful...afterall..."

No wonder he thinks of you as a mouse when you stutter like one.

The nerve relaxes. The hard edges of the Phantom's face soften in unison. Blinking, he averts his gaze, as a shy child might. His sigh forges an opening in the silence. Tension thickens silence which in turn thickens air until it's like metal in your lungs. You hold your breath until the Phantom's eyes meet yours with a humble plea of forgiveness. A gift of pearls, shimmering on the crystalline waves of his irises. The sudden lift in the air allows you to breathe again.

"Yes," He murmurs, "I did make it."

You smile. "It's beautiful."

The Phantom straightens, pride and confusion rippling across his face in an uncontrollable switch, like a quick-step dance, one emotion after the other, until he finally makes up his mind and watches you cluelessly. You stifle a laugh. Does he not know a compliment? He certainly can give them. Receiving appears to be an issue. What a strange man. You're absolutely entranced by his strangeness and charm.

"I will start on your soup. Take your time, Little Mouse...I will tell you when dinner is ready."

Before he can slip away, you call out to him.

"You have been so kind, Monsieur...you...you've shown me the Opera and the passages and your home...and I do not expect you to reveal all of your secrets to me," Your gaze flickers towards his mask as you wring your hands. "but...I should like to know your name so I can thank you properly."

His entire body seems frozen to the door and his hand so tight around the handle, you can see his white knuckles through the black glove. The Phantom stares at you in quiet disbelief. Your mouth slips into a pout. Remembering your conversation on the way to watch the performance, you realize the extent of his isolation. Didn't he say you're the first to call him handsome? You wrote it off as impossible then. He is truly an attractive man, nevermind the mask. Your stomach quivers even now, seeing each perfect feature of his face and the cut of his jaw. He does not know the managers, he's afraid to sell his invention; no one has called him handsome and judging by his current disposition....

No one has asked for his name.

The pity in your heart is overwhelming. Your head starts to swim as today catches up with you. So much has happened, and to make matters worse, you haven't eaten since this morning.

A small, burnt roll that a baker threw away.

Your stomach rumbles beneath your rags.

A hunger headache forms, inflamed by all your pondering.

"Erik."

Your focus shifts back to the Phantom.

He swallows thickly, "Erik...Destler."

Erik Destler.

"A gallant name," You muse, liking how it sounds in your head.

The Phantom — Erik — smiles softly. "And yours, Little Mouse?"

"(Y/N) (Y/L/N)."

"A lovely name, for a lovely young woman."

There's a lump in your throat as you shake your head.

"I'm afraid you're too kind...if I ever was lovely it was very long ago."

Erik's smile angles upwards as he backs through the doorway, "Beauty, Little Mouse, is in the eye of the beholder..."

The door latches into place, sealing you in the washroom with your thoughts, and feather-light heart. At the rate that your face is heating up, it might explode the moment you step into the warm tub. Lovely...you smile as you strip down to nothing, he called me lovely. The smile doesn't leave your face. Behind a closed door, you feel as if you could make any face you wanted. Privacy is a blessing you haven't had in so long. You resolve to savor it while it lasts. Stepping out of your tattered old dress, you immerse yourself in the water. An ecstatic sigh bursts from your mouth, so loud, you descend into giggles, and then bury your face under the surface, blowing bubbles through your nose. It's so warm! Like summer! — summer in a tub. Careful not to slosh, you go about scrubbing your arms, legs, chest and what sections of your back you can reach. Last but not least, you clean and rinse your face. Most of your time in the bath is spent obsessing over your face. It is, afterall, the only part of you that the Phan—

Erik, you amend.

Yes, your face is the only part that Erik will see, so you must make a good impression and prove that somewhere under all the grime you are beautiful.

By the time you've finished washing your hair, the water is lukewarm and your stomach has begun to make monstrous sounds at a consistency that embarrasses you, even in private. It's about time you dry off anyhow. Although you haven't properly bathed in years, it's impossible to forget the wrinkling effect water has on the skin. You remember your parents teasing you after loitering in the tub as a child. They called you a prune and chased you into bed, singing of dried fruits. You smile, and raise dripping frame from the water—

"Little Mouse?"

You drop straight back into the tub, as if that's any use. If Erik walked in you would have no way to hide yourself.

Thankfully, he speaks through the door.

He might've knocked.

But wouldn't that have startled you more?

"Yes?"

"There is no hurry, but I felt I should ah...tell you that dinner is served..."

"Oh, thank you, I'm almost finished!"

There is an unmistakable scuffing of feet outside the washroom door, filling the gap until, "Take as long as you need...I will be within sight to...lead the way to the dining room."

His footsteps flee before you can thank him a second time. A silly smile worms its way across your face as you step out of the tub, completely this time around. Erik. What a normal name for an abnormal person. It's so funny, you nearly laugh multiple times as you go about drying off and moping your hair. This strange man...who hides half of his face, has no friends — that you are aware of — lives beneath an Opera House, and masquerades as a murderous ghost...now taking you in? Offering you a warm bath and food? You're caught in a web of emotions. On the one hand, you're eternally grateful. Erik has been a gentleman every step of the way — well, almost, you note, once again pondering the mysterious and dark manner in which he treated you on the way to watch the performance. His harsh grip; biting tone; his threats and challenges. You were slightly afraid, but only slightly. Now, you're mostly confused. Curious rather, as to his true nature. He is no ghost, that much is certain, but is he a good man? What good man hides underground?

He's got a good enough heart. Obviously he doesn't kill women, at least not all of them, as the legends say.

Although the thought of Erik's kind hands being used to hang women from the rafters of the Opera Populaire disturb you greatly, you just as easily sympathize with the bizarre acts one has to commit to protect or hide themselves.

You of all people know the grit it takes to be a survivor.

You've been forced to hurt people before, to save yourself. One instance in particular stands out in your memory. There was a drunk, and he set his bottle down on a barrel outside a bar, not knowing you were sitting on the other side of it. He noticed you before you could crawl away, and tried to approach you despite the amount of times you told him to leave. Finally, when he grabbed a hold of you, you seized his bottle, broke it on the brick wall and plunged it into his stomach.

He might've died...

Or lived, carrying a scar to remind him of the alley rat that stabbed him with his own bottle.

Dead or alive, you'll never know; you ran before you could find out.

A hum interrupts your thoughts.

"There's no mirrors," You murmur, spinning around the room in search of your reflection. You've already dressed in the men's clothes Erik provided, but your hair is wet and clumpy and you wish you could see yourself in a mirror, now that your skin is clear of grime and your hair clean. You check once more but there's not a mirror in sight. Relenting, you pull your hair over your shoulder and do your best to towel dry it. That'll have to do, you huff, wishing it weren't so cold with wet hair dripping down your back.

You slip through the bathroom door, startling Erik from his spot just down the way. His shoulder slips off the wall.

"They fit well enough," You gesture to the borrowed clothes, and the corset, which you'd worn under your fraying dress for support.

It's as old and worn as the dress itself, but you couldn't very well waltz around a man — no matter how generous — in only thin, near see through linen. You awkwardly tied your corset tight enough to cling to your body on the outside of the shirt, causing you to look something like a pirate. You do admit, you look somewhat bizarre. Perhaps that's why Erik stares for so long? His eyes waver, flitting nervously across your body, unaware of how embarrassed you suddenly feel until your arms are curling protectively around your stomach. His gaze pops back up to your face just as another shiver races from your head to your toes. Erik purses his lips and striding forward, whips off his cape. It falls like rain through the air. In a single fluid movement that has you utterly hypnotized, Erik twirls the cloak around one arm and throws it over your shoulders. Your hands grasp the ends of the collar, securing it in place while Erik's gloved hands dip against the back of your neck, gently scooping the sopping wad of hair from your back and laying it against the cape.

"Come," He murmurs, "The soup will warm you up."

A brief passage widens into a small room furnished with a mahogany table and three chairs. Along the red tablecloth, there are gorgeous candlesticks and dishes set at two of the three chairs. You breathe a smile as Erik guides you to the nearest seat.

"This is lovely!"

Erik holds your hand as you lower yourself into the chair. He seems a bit excited, nervous even and stutters a bashful, "Thank you...it's really nothing much—"

"I love it," You interrupt.

Smiling, Erik pushes you in.

As he moves to uncover your bowl, your eyes stray to the other chairs.

"Do you often have company?"

Steam wafts from the soup, fogging Erik's mask. "Rarely. On the odd occasion, Madame Giry dines with me, she's my message bearer, you see, for the fools who run my Opera House and other times, the Daroga visits."

The delicious waft of onion and mushroom nearly distracts you from Erik's answer. You lean forwards, inhaling copious amounts of the mouthwatering smell and ask, "The Daroga?"

"The Persian. He works above. You may have heard of him."

When you shake your head, relief passes over Erik's face. He drops into the chair nearest to yours, uncovering his own soup, but refrains from eating. Manners forgotten, you pick up a spoon and dip it into the amber broth. "If they never visit at once...who is the third seat for?" You ask, proceeding to blow on the spoon.

"Oh," Erik grins, "That is Ayesha's chair."

He says it so naturally, as if the mention of another woman supping with him should have no affect on you whatsoever. By all means it shouldn't. It shouldn't, you tell yourself firmly, forcing the red hot spoon into your mouth. The soup is as tasty as it smells, and equally as hot. It scalds the sensitive flesh lining your throat as you hastily swallow it down, struggling to calm your expression to one of cool indifference. Once your first taste of the soup is no longer burning your tongue, you take a sip of the water placed by your bowl, and echo Erik's,

"Oh...and...how did the two of you meet?"

The polite attempt at conversation widens Erik's smile. One at a time, he plucks off his gloves and lays them neatly beside his napkin.

"I found her on the streets. She practically followed me home."

Your grip on the glass falters —

"After acquiring a horse, I never thought of having any other pets, especially as someone who lives underground, in secret...it never seemed fitting...but I couldn't say no to the cat. She was persistent and wanted food. Who was I to deny her when I hardly touch any of it myself."

His answer has your head spinning out of control.

A cat?

So he led you on! Fooling you into thinking there was some other peasant woman he helped in order to...to what? Certainly not make you jealous. Right? You're glad you haven't had any more of the soup yet. Not only is your emaciated stomach overwhelmed by the single spoonful, but the heat would've further inflamed your face, and by the oddly pleased look on his, he did mean to make you jealous. Which implies that the Phantom of the Opera himself is flirting with you of all people! A wet, scraggly peasant girl who can't even stomach a bit of soup! Your heart can barely process it. The overstimulated organ flops feverishly in your chest as your burning gaze drops to the bottom of your cup. Rather than question his trickery, your mind leaps to the last bit, about his appetite.

"Is that why you haven't eaten your soup?"

Erik's smirk slips. He glances at his bowl and swallows hard.

"I...do not often eat. It distracts me from my work," He coughs, "My music."

"But surely you need sustenance to engage in such...demanding creative activities," You press the matter gently, sensing it's a tender topic.

"Yes," Erik mumbles. "Surely..."

Together, you each take a sip of the soup.

And another.

And another.

Eating in complete silence until your stomach grows uneasy once more and you pause, thinking what to ask next. Before you can stop it, your mind is on the mask, and what could possibly be under the mask. The words tumble out of your mouth quicker than you can put them back in.

"Why do you wear a mask?"

Erik tenses, eyes wide and fearful. He seems in shock and although he isn't necessarily angry, you do not miss the spark in his eye and leap to solve your mistake.

"I'm sorry! I...I didn't mean anything by it! I merely meant...I'd like to know, if you'd be willing to share because well — I think your mask is lovely and well, your face is lovely, y-y-you are lovely and here I am, not lovely at all though you say I am and I figured if there were anything to say about the mask that isn't so lovely you shouldn't be afraid to tell the unlovliest person, which is me..."

Your rambling trails off, leaving the room in silence again. Your face feels hotter than before. Resisting the urge to fan it with the back of your napkin, you busy your hands with the front of your corset, picking at frayed threads and scratching along the wooden frames. Why on Earth did you have to blurt that out? Street-rat or not, you know better than to ask people uncomfortable questions! So what if he covers half his face? Did you ever stop to think that maybe, he's suffered a terrible injury or burn that's irreversible? Or perhaps he's covered in scars from a surgery? Maybe he has tattoos there? You've heard of foreign acts where men cover themselves in ink-images and are confined to carny life because of it. There are so many personal answers you never considered before letting your curiosity spew and now you're stewing in the most uncomfortable and petrifying of silences imaginable, picking at yourself, afraid to so much as glance at your host who you've horribly insulted and no doubt angered—

This sudden self-loathing has you in such a bind that you hardly notice something lifting your chin.

It just as easily takes you by surprise when a soft voice murmurs,

"Little Mouse...look at me."

He asks so nicely, how could you refuse?

Your lower lip quakes as you meet his gaze, expecting cruelty and offense but humbled at the sight of compassion.

"You and I are not so different are we? Unwanted, disdained...ugly in our own minds...you say you are not lovely...but you are the loveliest woman I've ever met...not because of your face...but because of your heart...and," His thumb trembles as it brushes across your lips, "I wear this mask because like you...I fear that people will find me unlovely because of my face and disregard my heart..."

Your eyes water to hear such vulnerability.

Such raw truth to which you instantly relate.

"Erik," You breathe, reaching up to cup his bare wrist.

He pulls back.

You hesitate, "Erik...you are lovely because of your good and generous heart...no matter what lies beneath that mask...my opinion will not change. You've shown me such kindness...I would be wrong to show anything but kindness back."

A silver film coats Erik's crystal eyes as he absorbs your words. The anguish on his face marbles into something else entirely. A warmth that you recognize in your heart. The corner of his mouth curls, quivering with every inch it crosses towards the ball of his cheek. You feel tears release from your lashes but you smile, no longer embarrassed or afraid. You understand now; the riddle has at last been explained. His shock and aggression in the rafters, his generosity and anxiety, how gently he treats you yet how easy he is to retreat inside himself, and retreat away from you as he did when you reached for him, longing to touch him — feel his skin against yours. Tonight, he's worn his gloves each time he touched you, until the moment when his finger hooked under your chin. The fiery timbre it ignited smokes inside of you and your hands fall somberly to your lap, keenly feeling the sting of rejection.

Then fingers, like raindrops, fall across your palm...

Stray up your lifeline, slipping through the spaces in between fingers and knotting your hands together.

"I will show you, Little Mouse...I will show you what lies behind the mask of the Phantom of the Opera. But not tonight...not tonight..."