Author's Note: Well, obviously this is a Glee/Phantom crossover. I just had an idea and went with it. And while this introductory chapter closely mirrors the beginning of The Phantom of the Opera musical, the rest of the story will not. Sebastian and Blaine will both feature heavily in this story along with Kurt. The title of this fic comes from the song "The Music of the Night." [remove spaces for video link~ youtu . be/FUPmaZifKzg]
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, Phantom of the Opera, or Love Never Dies. I'm just a fan.
"No one ever sees the Angel; but he is heard by those who are meant to hear him. He often comes when they least expect him, when they are sad and disheartened. Then their ears suddenly perceive celestial harmonies, a divine voice, which they remember all their lives."
- Gaston Leroux's Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, page 40
"Just look at them, Kurt," little Rachel whispered into her friend's ear. "They are so strange!"
She and Kurt were standing among the other members of the corps de ballet, all of them murmuring under their breaths about the two castrati who had walked onto the stage with the rest of the principal cast of Mitridate, re di Ponto. The men in question looked down their noses at the various people scattered across the stage, outwardly scorning yet inwardly preening at the attention. Their unusually long arms were drawn behind them with their delicate hands clasped at the smalls of their backs. Their puffed out chests beneath intricately embroidered coats only added to the look of haughtiness.
"Strange, how?" Kurt whispered back. "I think they're fascinating. Look at how spindly their legs are! And have you heard them sing?"
"You can sing better," Rachel proclaimed confidently, inviting no argument.
Kurt gave his friend a small smile. "Well, now that has yet to be proven."
"Oh, no, you can definitely sing better than them. Higher and better," Rachel insisted. "And you've still got all your boy parts."
Kurt smacked her in the arm, his face the picture of incredulity as Rachel fell into giggles. "You're terrible, Rachel Berry! I cannot believe you said that! Oh god, what if they heard you?" He looked around hoping no one caught the girl's comment, his face flushed red in embarrassment. The only looks they received, however, were curious glances from the ensemble at the sound of Rachel's laughter. The singers were busy speaking with the maestro and hadn't noticed anything was amiss.
"I feel bad for them, really," Rachel continued as if Kurt hadn't responded, tilting her head as she observed the primo uomo. "As angelic as they sound, they truly are quite grotesque."
Kurt frowned at her. "How do you mean?" he asked. "How are they grotesque?"
"They're misshapen! Look at them, Kurt, they look... disproportionate. Like something one might happen upon at a traveling show or a carnival. Not to mention, they don't have any b—"
"—Rachel!"
"Which probably means they have underdeveloped p—"
"—Rachel!"
"Well, it's true! I heard that's what happens when boys are castrated before they've grown into men," little Rachel persisted, though she lost some of her playfulness at Kurt's stern expression. "Truly, don't you think that's grotesque?"
"Grotesque it may be, but it is also not their fault," Kurt replied firmly. "I doubt they chose to be this way."
"You doubt they chose to trade their bodies to possess the voices of angels?"
"I doubt they chose to give up their futures, their dreams of children, their capacity for amorous feeling, and any options they might have had to do anything else with their lives, all for the smallest chance that they might be heard and adored."
Rachel looked surprised. She hadn't thought about it like that, hadn't really considered the men before her as being anything more than mere human oddities. Such extensive thought made her uncomfortable.
She pursed her lips at Kurt, somewhat put out that he didn't join in her tattle and had instead tried to end it. "Well, anyway," she said after a time. "You sing just as well as they do, if not better, and you didn't have to have your balls cut off to do so."
Kurt just covered his face with his hands, deciding it was no use trying to stop his friend's gabbing, no matter how inappropriate and inconsiderate. Rachel was a determined sort, after all.
"I bet you would've been famous if you'd lived in Italy," she was saying, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of fame. "Your range is quite the commodity over there, I hear. Maybe we could move there? Oh, let's move there, Kurt! I'm sure my talents would definitely be more appreciated in that country, anyway, and you would become a primo uomo in a second, I just know it!"
"Castrati—and therefore, countertenors—are going out of fashion, Rachel, even in Italy. I honestly don't think moving there would bring me anything, so please stop talking. And anyhow, dreams can wait," he said stiffly. "Because right now your mother is glaring at us."
Rachel snapped her head around, trying to spot her mother, and sure enough, Madame Corcoran was indeed glaring at them from stage right. But before they could collect themselves properly so as to amend their moment of misbehavior, she was in front of them, banging her wooden staff loudly (and needlessly) on the stage floor to ensure she had their attention.
"Rachel Berry!" she called in an authoritative and reprimanding tone. "Are you a dancer?"
The rest of the corps de ballet had gone quiet at the first sign of movement from the dance instructor and were now watching the scene with rapt attention, albeit whilst pretending to be absorbed in their own individual rehearsals.
Mme. Corcoran waited for her daughter's reply.
"Yes, madame," Rachel responded with all the confidence and ease of an oft-scolded child. Which, of course, she was.
"If you are a dancer, then why, pray tell, were you talking instead of practicing the ballet with the others?"
Rachel stuck her chin out at her mother. "But Kurt wasn't practicing either!"
"Don't drag me into this!" Kurt hissed under his breath at his friend.
"Kurt is not a part of the corps de ballet, Rachel, need I remind you?" the dance instructor said. "He is a chorus boy; you are a dancer. The maestro has no need of him at the moment, and so he avails himself and awaits instruction. You, however, know that you need to practice. Your ankles aren't as steady as they should be, and you move ahead of the other dancers too often. You should have been rehearsing to correct all this instead of gossiping. Now," she banged her staff once more with finality. "Practice!"
"Yes, madame," came Rachel's automatic response, though she muttered some heated words to herself as she rejoined her fellow dancers, leaving Kurt standing alone with the older woman. He wasn't sure what he should do with himself now that his friend was gone. Should he remain where he was, or should he go find something productive to do? Luckily, Mme. Corcoran saved him from making a decision.
"I've been told your singing lessons are going quite well," she said, breaking the short period of silence and offering Kurt a knowing smile.
He frowned at her, his eyes widening slightly. Of all the things he expected she might say, that was not one of them. "How did you...?"
He didn't think anyone else knew about his mysterious tutor. He himself didn't even know much about his tutor, beyond the voice in the dark. That beautiful, sweet voice.
"He speaks of you often," she continued. "And fondly. He is quite pleased with your progress, my dear."
Kurt didn't know what to say. This woman knew his teacher. She knew the man to whom that voice belonged.
He wondered why she hadn't said anything before. He never spoke of his lessons to anyone, as the voice, the Angel of Music, had explicitly requested. Who would believe him, anyhow? Who would hear his story of a disembodied voice arriving in his dressing room every evening for the past three months and not think him mad? Kurt wasn't a fool. But Mme. Corcoran knew. And she knew without him telling.
"He - he speaks to you, too?" he asked breathlessly. He could hardly believe it.
"Yes," his friend's mother replied matter-of-factly. "He speaks to me every show night in Box Five, which I alone manage and which is reserved only for him. He'll ask after my dear Rachel, noting how well she's doing and how far he thinks she'll go as a dancer," she paused. "And he'll talk of you. His 'angel,' as he calls you. Sometimes he'll leave me a tip—not much, just a few francs—or some of those English candies that he loves so much, just for watching his box and delivering any messages he might have for Messieurs Debienne and Poligny. He is always so very gracious."
"The managers know of him, as well?"
"Oh, yes," Mme. Corcoran said, smiling as if she'd just thought of something particularly witty. "Yes, they know of the Opera Ghost."
Kurt's mind was reeling, both with excitement and confusion. "Ghost?" he echoed curiously. "How can he be a ghost and yet bring you money and candy? Surely, he has a body, is a real person, and you've seen him?"
"If he does have a physical form, I have not seen it."
This all seemed very odd to Kurt, though he did not say as much. Before now, he knew next to nothing about his teacher, content simply to have that voice fill his mind and his soul, to have it inspire his song. The voice had never been anything more than his Angel of Music, the angel his father had promised to send down to him from heaven. And suddenly, he was being told that the voice was in fact a ghost, the Opera Ghost, whom others could also hear and who had his own private box in the opera house, a ghost who enjoyed English sweets and who presumed to have memos sent to the managers.
And yet, Kurt thought with newfound skepticism, in all this he remained only a voice. He couldn't understand how that was possible. If his Angel had no body, how could he eat candy? If he were a ghost, why would he need a seat from which to view performances?
Kurt was just about to inquire further when everyone was called to attention.
"Silence, everyone!" shouted the maestro with a mixture of urgency and annoyance. "If I could have the ensemble's cooperation for just a moment—or several," he muttered the last part to himself, "Signore Matteo would like to rehearse his aria from Act 2 and insists that you all remain quiet for the duration of the song." The man detested the sense of entitlement his star performers always seemed to have; however, he never let such feelings keep him from doing his job.
"Grazie," Matteo said as the maestro gestured harshly at the strings and horns, who eventually, after a moment of fumbling with their sheet music, began the harried introduction to "Lungi da te, mio bene." The countertenor did not bother acknowledging their nerves, but instead just waited for his cue to start singing.
When he finally did begin to sing, the room quieted even further. There was no disputing the singer's talent, although Kurt had to admit that there was much that could be said about his attitude. The self-satisfied smirk on the signore's face made it hard to enjoy what would otherwise be a lovely performance.
Then suddenly, as the castrato's voice flowed toward the end of his third bar of song, the loud snap of a rope recoiling could be heard from the rafters above, and in the next moment the royal blue tapestry overhead, along with the beam that held it, plummeted to the stage floor, crashing a mere foot behind Signore Matteo, who let out a startled and terrified scream in his highest register. It took a moment for everyone else to realize just what had happened, as most of the ensemble had not been paying visual attention to the performance.
Chaos and confusion overtook everybody for the longest of minutes, only subsiding when Mme. Corcoran called for order after her dear little Rachel loudly proclaimed that it must be the work of the Opera Ghost, for the stage hand had not been at his post, and therefore, could not have been the cause of the fallen drapery.
Speculation ensued for a time, but once order was finally and completely had, the singer and his fellow castrato promptly stormed off the stage with a few choice words, taking personal offense to the incident—and perhaps rightly so.
In the relative silence that followed, Kurt could have sworn he heard a man laughing.