Saturday, February 19, 2005
Music of the Night
Prologue
"Ayame..."
"Yes, Shigure my love?" The slim designer's voice was innocent - too much so. Shigure frowned.
"What exactly did you buy for three hundred and fifty dollars last month?"
"Why, whatever could you mean?"
The brown-haired man's frown became more intense. Aaya was suddenly very focused on one hidden seam in his latest (and one of his most extravagant) evening gowns - a seam that even the apparel-challenged writer could with full confidence call perfect.
"I'm just curious. Usually you tell me what you buy."
The white-haired designer became suddenly pensive. Shigure blinked.
"...or perhaps I don't want to know...?"
Aaya stood up wordlessly and crossed the room, throwing the closet door open with something rather less than his usual dramatic flair. Shigure watched in equal silence, eyes worried. It had been many years since he'd seen the man this withdrawn, this careful, this...emotional.
Reaching into the back corner of the closet, shoving aside bolts of fancy cloth and plastic bags full of scrap material and pattern sketches, Ayame pulled out a cardboard box that Shigure had never seen before. It was unmarked and unopened. There was a lighter spot where the address label had been ripped off. Someone had pulled up the corner of the masking tape that held the top flaps of the box together, but stopped after only a few inches.
"I thought you might not want to see it," Ayame said quietly as he set the box down on the table in front of Shigure. He retreated to the doorway, made as if to leave the room, then paused, one hand on the doorframe above his head and the other hanging limply in space. He didn't turn, but neither did he go on.
Hesitantly, Shigure opened the box. He removed the layer of plain white tissue paper that covered whatever was inside and placed it carefully on the table. He slid his hands down the sides of the box and lifted the neatly folded package of black fabric, shook it out over the floor, nearly dropped it in surprise. It was a large theatrical-style cloak, complete with oversized hood and overcape that stretched around the shoulders and reached just past the wearer's elbows.
His fingers trembled as he draped the cloak gently over one arm and reached again into the box. This time the tissue paper was black. He unfolded it quickly, nervously, revealing a cold, white, and all-too-familiar mask.
A piece of paper with torn edges and folded with infinite care fluttered to the ground. Shigure bent and picked it up, realizing only then that it had been torn from a piece of sheet music; he unfolded it, read the few words scrawled there in a neat but unsteady hand, and sank silently into his chair, still clutching the scrap between his fingers. Ayame moved equally noiselessly, left the house, walked down the street with his head bowed and his thoughts travelling to another time, another place.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Overture
The Paris Opera House was a magnificent place - rich, luxurious, and expansive. It was the gathering-place of every name in the city. So it was no surprise that Philippe Georges Akito, Comte de Chagny, knew his way around quite well.
His younger brother, however, did not.
Shigure had become thoroughly lost the instant they entered the real world of the theatre, where singers practiced their scales and dancers drilled themselves for hours on end over one short sequence, where the fantastic and the grotesque were commonplace and it was the absence of either that was unusual. The young man was visibly nervous, fidgeting with his cuffs as he stared wide-eyed at the chaotic activity that flowed on all sides around him. A giggling crowd of dancers flitted past, and the nature of his blank look suddenly changed. A wide smile spread itself over his face as he stepped forward to catch the eye of the last dancer. A slim brunette with rather untamed hair, she was the -
"Shigure!" Akito snapped. "Leave the girls alone and come this way. We're going to be late if you keep wandering off." The black-haired man disappeared through a fancifully carved door, and Shigure had no choice but to follow.
A boy with brilliant orange hair snickered as he passed. "Too bad, 'Mione. From what I hear down in the stables he would have been just your type - absolutely useless, and always with his nose stuck in some book or other."
"Shut up, Ron," Hermione replied shortly as she shifted Paris Opera House: A History to her other hand.
Shigure had to leap out of the way as a blonde-haired blue-eyed streak charged past, closely pursued by a pink-headed blur. The wind of their passing came as a physical blow. Shigure blinked.
"And you wanted me to be patron of this place," he asked as he finally caught up to his elder brother, "why, exactly?"
"Because it wouldn't hurt you in the least to learn a little responsibility," was the cold answer. "Now be quiet, and stop pulling at your shirt. You've already wrinkled it."
--------------------------------------------------------------
Rehearsal
The Queen was impressive, the Empress dazzling, but Ayame made the show. In something less than twenty-four hours he had completely destroyed and rebuilt Ino's costume from the inside out, and now he was simply resplendent in cascades of the purest white. His silvery hair literally twinkled with innumerable flecks of diamond that snatched the light of the great chandelier and threw it back out in a thousand and two sharp glints. But all attention was on his voice, not his dress.
Ino had a good voice, when she chose to use it. Ayame's was the syren-song come alive, the crystal notes of the stars themselves. Delicate and full, touched by the lightest accent, it carried laughter and chimes and trumpets all at once and, effortlessly, nearly managed to drown out the entire orchestra. Even the prima donna's devotees were silent with awe.
Think of me, think of me fondly
When we've said goodbye
Remember me once in a while
Please promise me you'll try
In a shadowed box seat to the left of the stage, a man stirred.
When you find that once again you long
To take your heart back and be free
If you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me!
He leaned forward in his seat and focused his opera glasses on the white spectacle center-stage, oblivious to all else.
We never said our love was evergreen
Or as unchanging as the sea
But if you can still remember,
Stop and think of me
He stopped, and he thought.
Think of all the things we've shared and seen
Don't think about the things which might have been
A scarf caught by the wind, so many years ago.
Think of me, think of me waiting
Silent and resigned
Imagine me, trying too hard
To put you from my mind
The sun on the sand, and two boys laughing as they danced away from the waves.
Recall those days, look back on all those times
Think of the things we'll never do
There will never be a day
When I don't think of you!
The name came suddenly with all the force of a full-fisted blow.
"Can it be?" Shigure cried, lurching from his seat to lean out over the railing as far as he dared. "Can it be Aaya? Bravo!"Off to the right someone in the audience hissed, and the orchestra became suddenly louder, but he paid no heed.
"What a change," he murmured, taking a step backwards, "you're really not a bit the gawkish boy that once you were. You may not remember me, but I remember...!"
We never said our love was evergreen
Or as unchanging as the sea
But please promise me that sometimes
You will think - of me!
As the final drawn-out note faded from the air, the opera house fairly exploded in applause, but the heavy door to Box Five hung open, the right-hand curtains still rippling in the wind from its former inhabitant's passing.
Or perhaps it was not the wind, after all. Moments after the theatre emptied, a tall slim man shook his way free of their heavy folds and moved to stand in the middle of the box, eyes fixed on the deserted stage. His arms nearly quivered as he wrapped his hands around the rail. He murmured a name to himself - Ayame - and then slipped through the door and down the hallway before disappearing around a darkened corner.
Another pause, and then a soft groan.
"Whatever happened," Hatori muttered darkly, "to the days when a man could watch an opera in peace?" His knees popped in unison as he stretched long legs for the first time in hours, unfolding himself from the cramped shadows behind the left-hand column. The black-haired man grimaced as he wondered what exactly he'd done to deserve not one but two extra visitors in what he considered his private box. The former manager, the good M. Flitwick, had kept the box empty in return for the occasional small favor; few cared to ask why exactly it was that the Opera House had suffered so few robberies recently. Hatori was accustomed to odd schedules and enjoyed wandering the theatre at obscene hours. If scaring off the local scum meant he got free operas every week or so, well then, who was he to complain? Plus, the rumors of phantoms and ghosts that necessarily arose among the superstitious youngsters at the Opera served to keep all but the most adventurous above-ground. Hatori didn't consider himself to be the secretive type usually, but when one was hiding from society in general, having the Opera House's catacombs almost entirely to oneself tended to make things easier.
He tossed a quick glance at the stage, wondering. That lead singer certainly hadn't been Ino; he just wasn't sure who it had been. Regardless, this "Ayame" was quite talented, and he was rather looking forward to the next performance. If only he didn't have to deal with those two other men...
Stepping around to the back of the column with a frown, he ran his hand quickly over the smooth marble until his fingers found the tiny but familiar depression, and then with the soft rumble of stone on stone he was gone.
Box Five waited, silent, vacant.
The black-haired man stalking along a full two strides ahead of the horse was muttering under his breath. The Phantom rarely showed his moods so easily.
"What's...?" Aya started tentatively, then trailed off as the Phantom tossed a quick glance in his direction. Green eyes roiled with barely-restrained emotion. They lingered mere instants before flickering away again.
The taller man lengthened his stride still further, pulling the horse almost to a trot behind him. It was an effort not to run. The other direction. The dark walls of the catacombs pressed in around him, a physical force that tried to pull the breath from his lungs and tear sanity screaming from his head. He felt as if he were falling into an eternal pit of the darkest, most endless black. He half believed that he would never see the light of day again, half hoped for it.
Down once more to the dungeons of my black despair, he thought bleakly, down we plunge to the prisons of my mind. Down this path into darkness deep as Hell! His fists clenched, the nails digging deep enough to draw blood.
"Phantom." Ayame's voice was flat.
The darker man glanced up again, quickly, but straightened his fingers with an effort and slowed his walk.
"...yes?" he asked quietly.
"You've known me for a fair while now, and still I hardly know you at all. So far, I've gone on your word and blind trust. I think maybe I deserve some answers."
The taller man looked up again, green meeting gold in a cold stare. Green was the first to shatter.
"I...can't tell you everything," he said softly. "But I will answer what I can."
Ayame frowned slightly, deep in thought; his eyes rested consideringly on the back of the Phantom's head, and for once he wasn't thinking that the man would look so much better in embroidery.
"Why?"
The Phantom snapped."Why?! Why, you ask?! Why, bound and chained, hand and foot with no bonds at all, to such a dismal place?! Not for any mortal sin - just the wickedness of my abhorrent face!" His black stage cloak snapped like a banner as he turned away, braced his closed fists against the unrelenting stone wall, reined in his temper with something approaching physical force.
"Ayame..."
"Yes, Shigure my love?" The slim designer's voice was innocent - too much so. Shigure frowned.
"What exactly did you buy for three hundred and fifty dollars last month?"
"Why, whatever could you mean?"
The brown-haired man's frown became more intense. Aaya was suddenly very focused on one hidden seam in his latest (and one of his most extravagant) evening gowns - a seam that even the apparel-challenged writer could with full confidence call perfect.
"I'm just curious. Usually you tell me what you buy."
The white-haired designer became suddenly pensive. Shigure blinked.
"...or perhaps I don't want to know...?"
Aaya stood up wordlessly and crossed the room, throwing the closet door open with something rather less than his usual dramatic flair. Shigure watched in equal silence, eyes worried. It had been many years since he'd seen the man this withdrawn, this careful, this...emotional.
Reaching into the back corner of the closet, shoving aside bolts of fancy cloth and plastic bags full of scrap material and pattern sketches, Ayame pulled out a cardboard box that Shigure had never seen before. It was unmarked and unopened. There was a lighter spot where the address label had been ripped off. Someone had pulled up the corner of the masking tape that held the top flaps of the box together, but stopped after only a few inches.
"I thought you might not want to see it," Ayame said quietly as he set the box down on the table in front of Shigure. He retreated to the doorway, made as if to leave the room, then paused, one hand on the doorframe above his head and the other hanging limply in space. He didn't turn, but neither did he go on.
Hesitantly, Shigure opened the box. He removed the layer of plain white tissue paper that covered whatever was inside and placed it carefully on the table. He slid his hands down the sides of the box and lifted the neatly folded package of black fabric, shook it out over the floor, nearly dropped it in surprise. It was a large theatrical-style cloak, complete with oversized hood and overcape that stretched around the shoulders and reached just past the wearer's elbows.
His fingers trembled as he draped the cloak gently over one arm and reached again into the box. This time the tissue paper was black. He unfolded it quickly, nervously, revealing a cold, white, and all-too-familiar mask.
A piece of paper with torn edges and folded with infinite care fluttered to the ground. Shigure bent and picked it up, realizing only then that it had been torn from a piece of sheet music; he unfolded it, read the few words scrawled there in a neat but unsteady hand, and sank silently into his chair, still clutching the scrap between his fingers. Ayame moved equally noiselessly, left the house, walked down the street with his head bowed and his thoughts travelling to another time, another place.
Overture
The Paris Opera House was a magnificent place - rich, luxurious, and expansive. It was the gathering-place of every name in the city. So it was no surprise that Philippe Georges Akito, Comte de Chagny, knew his way around quite well.
His younger brother, however, did not.
Shigure had become thoroughly lost the instant they entered the real world of the theatre, where singers practiced their scales and dancers drilled themselves for hours on end over one short sequence, where the fantastic and the grotesque were commonplace and it was the absence of either that was unusual. The young man was visibly nervous, fidgeting with his cuffs as he stared wide-eyed at the chaotic activity that flowed on all sides around him. A giggling crowd of dancers flitted past, and the nature of his blank look suddenly changed. A wide smile spread itself over his face as he stepped forward to catch the eye of the last dancer. A slim brunette with rather untamed hair, she was the -
"Shigure!" Akito snapped. "Leave the girls alone and come this way. We're going to be late if you keep wandering off." The black-haired man disappeared through a fancifully carved door, and Shigure had no choice but to follow.
A boy with brilliant orange hair snickered as he passed. "Too bad, 'Mione. From what I hear down in the stables he would have been just your type - absolutely useless, and always with his nose stuck in some book or other."
"Shut up, Ron," Hermione replied shortly as she shifted Paris Opera House: A History to her other hand.
Shigure had to leap out of the way as a blonde-haired blue-eyed streak charged past, closely pursued by a pink-headed blur. The wind of their passing came as a physical blow. Shigure blinked.
"And you wanted me to be patron of this place," he asked as he finally caught up to his elder brother, "why, exactly?"
"Because it wouldn't hurt you in the least to learn a little responsibility," was the cold answer. "Now be quiet, and stop pulling at your shirt. You've already wrinkled it."
Shigure smiled. Akito's snappish attitude amused him; for all his posing, the man hated being around crowds. Three people were three too many in his opinion. Shigure was surprised that he was able to stand being in this seething throng at all, much less voluntarily on an almost weekly basis. Probably some girl, he thought with an inward snicker.
Tugging uncomfortably at his collar, Shigure followed Akito through a comparatively unassuming door and out onto the grand stage of the Paris Opera House.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Rehearsal
--------------------------------------------------------------
Think of Me
The Queen was impressive, the Empress dazzling, but Ayame made the show. In something less than twenty-four hours he had completely destroyed and rebuilt Ino's costume from the inside out, and now he was simply resplendent in cascades of the purest white. His silvery hair literally twinkled with innumerable flecks of diamond that snatched the light of the great chandelier and threw it back out in a thousand and two sharp glints. But all attention was on his voice, not his dress.
Ino had a good voice, when she chose to use it. Ayame's was the syren-song come alive, the crystal notes of the stars themselves. Delicate and full, touched by the lightest accent, it carried laughter and chimes and trumpets all at once and, effortlessly, nearly managed to drown out the entire orchestra. Even the prima donna's devotees were silent with awe.
Think of me, think of me fondly
When we've said goodbye
Remember me once in a while
Please promise me you'll try
In a shadowed box seat to the left of the stage, a man stirred.
When you find that once again you long
To take your heart back and be free
If you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me!
He leaned forward in his seat and focused his opera glasses on the white spectacle center-stage, oblivious to all else.
We never said our love was evergreen
Or as unchanging as the sea
But if you can still remember,
Stop and think of me
He stopped, and he thought.
Think of all the things we've shared and seen
Don't think about the things which might have been
A scarf caught by the wind, so many years ago.
Think of me, think of me waiting
Silent and resigned
Imagine me, trying too hard
To put you from my mind
The sun on the sand, and two boys laughing as they danced away from the waves.
Recall those days, look back on all those times
Think of the things we'll never do
There will never be a day
When I don't think of you!
The name came suddenly with all the force of a full-fisted blow.
"Can it be?" Shigure cried, lurching from his seat to lean out over the railing as far as he dared. "Can it be Aaya? Bravo!"Off to the right someone in the audience hissed, and the orchestra became suddenly louder, but he paid no heed.
"What a change," he murmured, taking a step backwards, "you're really not a bit the gawkish boy that once you were. You may not remember me, but I remember...!"
We never said our love was evergreen
Or as unchanging as the sea
But please promise me that sometimes
You will think - of me!
As the final drawn-out note faded from the air, the opera house fairly exploded in applause, but the heavy door to Box Five hung open, the right-hand curtains still rippling in the wind from its former inhabitant's passing.
Or perhaps it was not the wind, after all. Moments after the theatre emptied, a tall slim man shook his way free of their heavy folds and moved to stand in the middle of the box, eyes fixed on the deserted stage. His arms nearly quivered as he wrapped his hands around the rail. He murmured a name to himself - Ayame - and then slipped through the door and down the hallway before disappearing around a darkened corner.
Another pause, and then a soft groan.
"Whatever happened," Hatori muttered darkly, "to the days when a man could watch an opera in peace?" His knees popped in unison as he stretched long legs for the first time in hours, unfolding himself from the cramped shadows behind the left-hand column. The black-haired man grimaced as he wondered what exactly he'd done to deserve not one but two extra visitors in what he considered his private box. The former manager, the good M. Flitwick, had kept the box empty in return for the occasional small favor; few cared to ask why exactly it was that the Opera House had suffered so few robberies recently. Hatori was accustomed to odd schedules and enjoyed wandering the theatre at obscene hours. If scaring off the local scum meant he got free operas every week or so, well then, who was he to complain? Plus, the rumors of phantoms and ghosts that necessarily arose among the superstitious youngsters at the Opera served to keep all but the most adventurous above-ground. Hatori didn't consider himself to be the secretive type usually, but when one was hiding from society in general, having the Opera House's catacombs almost entirely to oneself tended to make things easier.
He tossed a quick glance at the stage, wondering. That lead singer certainly hadn't been Ino; he just wasn't sure who it had been. Regardless, this "Ayame" was quite talented, and he was rather looking forward to the next performance. If only he didn't have to deal with those two other men...
Stepping around to the back of the column with a frown, he ran his hand quickly over the smooth marble until his fingers found the tiny but familiar depression, and then with the soft rumble of stone on stone he was gone.
Box Five waited, silent, vacant.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Little Lotte
--------------------------------------------------------------
Angel of Music
The door to Ayame's room was thick, wooden, and very nearly soundproof. In fact, the excited chattering on the far side came only to his ears as a muted whisper. This was not, in Ayame's opinion, a bad thing.
The windows to Ayame's room were thick, heavy, and very nearly opaque. In fact, the bright moonlight outside filtered in as only the merest illumination, enough to see by but only with great exertions of the imagination. This, in Ayame's opinion, was a bad thing. He stumbled about blindly until his roaming fingers came in contact with a suspiciously rectangular box, then blinked as the match he struck flared into life. The dangerous portion of the evening over, it took only moments to light the forty-two candles dispersed liberally around the dresser.
The door to Ayame's room was thick, wooden, and very nearly soundproof. In fact, the excited chattering on the far side came only to his ears as a muted whisper. This was not, in Ayame's opinion, a bad thing.
The windows to Ayame's room were thick, heavy, and very nearly opaque. In fact, the bright moonlight outside filtered in as only the merest illumination, enough to see by but only with great exertions of the imagination. This, in Ayame's opinion, was a bad thing. He stumbled about blindly until his roaming fingers came in contact with a suspiciously rectangular box, then blinked as the match he struck flared into life. The dangerous portion of the evening over, it took only moments to light the forty-two candles dispersed liberally around the dresser.
"Much better," Ayame said with a satisified nod. He turned to the full-length wall mirror to the left of the dresser and contemplated his reflection for a moment. That last seam down the side - the one he'd completed fifteen minutes before the opera began - really was rather crooked, he decided. He would have to fix that before the next performance. That gave him just under twenty-four hours; plenty of time. No, the problem was not the seam. The problem, he thought, was the veil. Or rather, the lack thereof. He had discussed the issue at length with Iruka, one of the new managers, and with Iaani, the actual head of the costuming department (officially, that title belonged to some woman named...well, some other woman, but her complete lack of skill, dedication, and above all presence had deprived her of the true position). Iaani had not been entirely enthusiastic, but had agreed that given sufficient time a solution could perhaps be worked out - time that they didn't have before the first showing, unfortunately. So the matter had been set aside temporarily. Just something else to deal with in the morning.
--------------------
The post-opera reception lasted long into the night, and it was ten o'clock before Shigure managed to pull Ayame aside and speak to him in something resembling privacy. But contrary to his expectations, the man required no promptings.
"Shigure, my love!" he exclaimed. "Why, wherever have you been all night? I've been waiting for you!"
"I was trying to - " Shigure began, but before he could continue Ayame pursed his lips and frowned.
"Shigure, you haven't been cheating on me, have you?" he asked.
Shigure blinked. "Ayame, how could you ever think such a thing? You know I would never do that!"The instantaneous, blindingly white grin was his only warning, and then he was staggering back as Ayame quite literally leaped to hug him. There was a period of much bowing and apologizing for spilled drinks before Ayame looped his arm possessively through Shigure's, announced somewhat loudly that he and his love were leaving, and proceeded to do just that.
Leaning against the wood-panelled wall outside of Ayame's room, Shigure couldn't help but smile. There would be questions to answer in the morning, yes, but for now he could simply enjoy the fact that they were about to have dinner. Besides being ravenously hungry - Akito had rushed him out of the house that morning with some excuse about a business associate requesting a private meeting, and he hadn't had a chance to eat since - it would give them a chance to catch up on the last decade and a half. One thing, at least, hadn't changed a bit: Ayame still felt the need to switch outfits every three hours. Shigure chuckled, and waited.
The Paris Opera House was huge, and employed an entire host of people that would have otherwise been beggars to simply roam the lower levels and keep doors that should be shut, shut. However, they had a way of getting into the wine cellars from time to time - often on premiere nights, such as this - and had been known to fall down on the job occasionally. So when Ayame walked into his rooms and was greeted with the sight of his seven-foot-tall mirror standing open to reveal a long dark passageway that turned almost immediately out of view behind a forest of think supports, he was more intrigued than unnerved.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Down Once More
Ayame shifted uncomfortably on the saddle, twitching the folds of his dress. The thing was a bit revealing even for his tastes. But between unending practices during the day and secret meetings with Shigure and the Phantom all night, he simply hadn't had the time to design his own costume. At least the seamstresses had stopped trying to sew in extra padding... His lips quirked in amusement, but the smile melted into a frown before it had a chance to form fully.The black-haired man stalking along a full two strides ahead of the horse was muttering under his breath. The Phantom rarely showed his moods so easily.
"What's...?" Aya started tentatively, then trailed off as the Phantom tossed a quick glance in his direction. Green eyes roiled with barely-restrained emotion. They lingered mere instants before flickering away again.
The taller man lengthened his stride still further, pulling the horse almost to a trot behind him. It was an effort not to run. The other direction. The dark walls of the catacombs pressed in around him, a physical force that tried to pull the breath from his lungs and tear sanity screaming from his head. He felt as if he were falling into an eternal pit of the darkest, most endless black. He half believed that he would never see the light of day again, half hoped for it.
Down once more to the dungeons of my black despair, he thought bleakly, down we plunge to the prisons of my mind. Down this path into darkness deep as Hell! His fists clenched, the nails digging deep enough to draw blood.
"Phantom." Ayame's voice was flat.
The darker man glanced up again, quickly, but straightened his fingers with an effort and slowed his walk.
"...yes?" he asked quietly.
"You've known me for a fair while now, and still I hardly know you at all. So far, I've gone on your word and blind trust. I think maybe I deserve some answers."
The taller man looked up again, green meeting gold in a cold stare. Green was the first to shatter.
"I...can't tell you everything," he said softly. "But I will answer what I can."
Ayame frowned slightly, deep in thought; his eyes rested consideringly on the back of the Phantom's head, and for once he wasn't thinking that the man would look so much better in embroidery.
"Why?"
The Phantom snapped."Why?! Why, you ask?! Why, bound and chained, hand and foot with no bonds at all, to such a dismal place?! Not for any mortal sin - just the wickedness of my abhorrent face!" His black stage cloak snapped like a banner as he turned away, braced his closed fists against the unrelenting stone wall, reined in his temper with something approaching physical force.
// posted by Ha'ri @ 2/19/2005 09:45:00 PM 
