The Soprano's Game (One-Shot)

(One-Shot)

Never had I kissed anyone before this. Such an innocent thought in all reality of its ways, but it was true nonetheless. I hadn't kissed another person before, for being the initiator to such an act wasn't who I was or who I was supposed to be. Raoul had kissed me, yet I hadn't been the one to fall into the dominant role of such intimate contact. I had not a clue in the happenings of a kiss, and my partner was as inexperienced as I. Raoul had witnessed the ignominy against him, and then he was sent away after having his heart shattered in lieu of my actions. I was the one who had made the choice, made the bed, and I was being forced to lie in it.

This simple kiss allowed one to surmise I knew what I was doing, when in the reality that I had been faced with, I didn't. I knew not that I was deciding my undeniable fate to a man with whom I hardly knew at all, despite knowing almost everything about him.

This man was a murderer; this fact was most prominent in my mind as I deluded to who he was. My angel was a man, in every sense of the word. He was years older than me, encompassing me almost twice in age. He was a ghost, an angel, a monster—in his own words,—a musical genius, and most of all, he was mine. Had I wished to admit that, I would have, a much more extended amount of time ago. I would have said flatly that I knew his heart belonged to me and I couldn't stop its doings, for the deepest of loves lived in his blackened soul only for me.

And here I was, sitting in a room, soft, welcoming covers covering my porcelain skin to ward off the cold from the deep catacombs I would now inhabit forever.

I was trying to sleep. The covers were warm, and my room was lonely and quiet, but that wasn't quite the problem. I couldn't sleep for the main reason of my mind wondering what my angel was doing.

What had ensued that night surely couldn't have been easy, and it surely wasn't ideal. After it was done, Raoul had been shipped off back to the de Chagny manor, and I was carted into a room, changed, and put to bed like a child. My angel had not even given me the smallest hint as to what he felt regarding my decision; it was as if it had never happened at all, and I was just here like one of the many nights I had spent here to come away from the opera house bustle.

Yes, the one night after I had come down and revealed his mask hadn't been my first, but it was my last. This was the first time I had been down here since, and it felt like prison, not my new home.

My mind was also contemplating what I was going to do for the rest of my life. How was I going to live in a situation such as this? I knew my angel, and I knew that he wasn't going to allow things to remain the same like it had been before. I would sit and read or we would practice music, no more, no less. The nights would bring sleep, but seldom ever for him. Would he throw me into the marriage he had proposed? Would I refuse?

This was a better question. Why hadn't I been adamant to leave? I was allowing this to happen, and I didn't really know why I wasn't protesting, screaming for release, despising him as I should be. I wished like hell that I would at least do something.

When sleep finally overtook me, it had been after hours of contemplating the situation I hurdled my way into. I had come to the conclusion that I couldn't protest, I simply had to accept what was brought upon me. I had, in fact, made this choice myself. So, what was I supposed to do about the fact that I accepted it? I was going to approach my angel, make an effort, and fully give in to the consequence of my actions.

Therefore, the next morning I padded softly into the sitting room, and wrapped myself tightly in a blanket, awaiting his presence.

After a short while, his tall and sickly form waltzed into the room and his eyes rested dutifully on me. His gaze was intent, and mesmerizing. It was almost as if he had forgotten I was here, forgotten that I was here permanently to do his bidding.