Angel of Music

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.

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.

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. 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