Page 9 of Angel's Fall
2. Leading Roles
Erik felt light ashe walked the empty halls of his Opera. Lighter than he had felt in ages. Finally, the things he loved were safe. His angel and his home. Their home? Erik paused in the silent hall and smiled. As mad as it sounded, it was true. He would enjoy it more once he dealt with his administrative duties.
“Sweet Christ, my back,” a low voice groaned further down the hall behind the very door to which Erik was headed. “I told you we should have just gone to your flat.”
The only response was a rather piteous moan. The first speaker answered with a sonorous laugh that Erik recognized. It was Robert Rameau, the lead bass. Which meant that the other man inside the office where Erik had been heading was Rameau’s lover, Armand Moncharmin, the artistic manager of the Paris Opera.
“How are you not hungover?” Moncharmin asked, voice thick with suffering, as Erik approached. “You had more last night than me.”
“I told you: champagne is poison. Stick to sherry and you won’t regret a thing in the morning.”
Moncharmin made another pained sound. Erik glanced into the office. It was less opulent than the rest of the Opera, but the two men sprawled on the floor among discarded clothes, half under the desk, did increase the air of decadence.
“You are the devil,” Moncharmin muttered, rubbing his eyes as Rameau leaned in to kiss him with a tender smile.
Erik watched the intimate moment with a twinge in his gut. He glimpsed encounters like these all the time as a ghost, though he tried to avoid it. His discretion was not out of any respect for the privacy; more so because catching an assignation had always reminded him of his own isolation. Now, it reminded him of what he loved, and how dangerous it remained. The lightness that had buoyed Erik all morning faded, and he saw a similar darkness in Moncharmin’s face as his lover pulled away.
“You should go,” Moncharmin said softly.
“Why? It’s not like I have rehearsal,” Rameau replied. Erik could hear something hesitant in the deep voice; something longing for more. Moncharmin stood by way of answering. “Armand.”
“I have to work,” Moncharmin sighed. “I’m assembling a full proposal for Richard on why we should mount our first production of Wagner.”
“Of course you are.” Rameau’s exhale was wistful and resigned.
Erik retreated to an alcove in the hall as Rameau made himself decent and took his time exiting the office. Erik wondered if there was a final kiss, something to remind the two of whatever passion had led them to that office together the night before. Something to get them through the day alone. He hoped so, but the melancholy on Rameau’s face indicated there had not been.
Erik waited from the shadows as Rameau’s footsteps retreated. That was his life so often: waiting. Hiding. Watching the dramas of other people who had no idea how lucky they were to walk in the sun. Christine had changed that, given him someone to go home to. Yet Erik still knew that loneliness. Just like he was sure Armand Moncharmin did.
Perhaps that was why the Opera Ghost found himself standing at the manager’s office door, clearly visible when Moncharmin looked up. There was no fear in his face, just quiet resignation.
“You didn’t need to send him away. This place is a tomb on days like this.”
To Erik’s surprise, Moncharmin gave a tired smile. “I know. But it makes things difficult, having him here.” The manager stepped behind his desk – which was just as mussed and disheveled as he was – and began sorting through the chaos. “Not in the way you’re thinking though.”
“Bold of you to assume how I think.”
“He’s not distracting,” Moncharmin went on, straightening a pile of papers. “It’s just that a domestic morning with him reminds me too much of—”
“All the things you cannot have.” Erik gave a rueful smile at the edge of his mask. “You think having those things more will make it even harder to give them up.”
“Yes,” Moncharmin chuckled and adjusted his spectacles.
