angel of lies

one

warnings: tw; brief mention of blood

word count: 5.4k

a/n: so, this is a phantom of the opera au that i've been working at (or procrastinated working at) for at least three months! i'm finally publishing it today because it's my birthday, and i wanted to give something back to all the lovely people who have supported me throughout my writing endeavours!! the idea for this fic was not my own, but that of some lovely friends over on tumblr (where i'm also ineloqueent, if you're interested). i have no idea when the following parts of this fic will drop, seeing as i have yet to write them, haha. i do know, however, that this will be a fic in three parts.

~⚘~

The stage was alive with sound.

With movement it crawled, such that from a distance it appeared to be shimmering, for the headdresses of the dancers sparkled like mirrorballs, casting flecks of light throughout the theatre like stars.

In the grand foyer, glittering crystals dripped from the ceiling, and shadows chased the balustrade statues that raised candelabras above their marble heads.

The place hummed with life, typical of the pre-show hustle and bustle, where every inch of floor was populated by activity, each person more frantic than the next, and the frenzy was only building by the minute.

The theatre became louder as the shouts grew more frequent, and the poor conductor was struggling to raise his voice over the clamour, the prima donna of the production now doing the most orchestration, in terms of chaos.

You sighed, and Meg rolled her eyes. This was going to be a long night.

Meg's brother shot her a warning look.

We cannot afford to lose our leading lady, his look said.

"Yes, Monsieur Giry," Meg mocked, but only when his back was turned.

"I heard that," John hissed as he passed his sister.

But Meg only laughed.

You shook your head at her. "You really oughtn't annoy your brother like that. He has the power to fire you from here, you know."

"Oh, but it's so funny when he gets like that," Meg said. "His hair always bounces whenever he leaves in a huff."

You stared after John, whose mound of hair really did bounce when he walked. You smiled.

Then, one of the owners of the opera, a man with dark hair and dark irises to match, made a grand gesture, and all eyes followed his hand. "Darlings, may I present the Vicomte de Chagny."

Your heart caught in your throat, and you found that you couldn't remember as to why Meg was giggling by your side.

It couldn't be.

It couldn't be him.

Could it?

In your disbelief, your mouth fell open, because there, at centre stage, being introduced as the new patron of the Opera Populaire, was Roger.

Golden-haired, blue-eyed Roger, sweet and silly, who, in your childhood, had been a companion closer to you than your own shadow. You had no fonder memories than those in which he made an appearance, laughing happily as the two of you traded stories of goblins and the rain lashed against the windows of the attic, as your father, long passed, played his violin by candlelight, as Roger shared with you the last of the chocolate.

There would never be a day when you did not think of him.

"Y/N?" Meg intoned.

"Roger," you whispered, unable to do anything but watch him and his smiling eyes, as he shook hands with the opera personnel.