Hey guys, welcome to my very first Phantom story! This is set in the movieverse, and I'm not totally sure where it will end up, but enjoy!
Also: Reviewers will receive their very own Masquerade mask (because it's my favorite scene) and an invitation to Verity and the Phantom's masked ball (so you have an opportunity to wear it).
Francesca Bretzini had been at the Paris Opera Populaire for six months now, and she had to admit, she was desperately homesick. She was not a particularly spectacular singer or dancer; she was an actress more than anything, and the Opera had asked her to join them because they had figured out that if one chorus girl gets the expressions right, it reflects well on all of them, even the most blank-faced.
This wasn't the first time she had been invited to work abroad, and once again her parents were prepared to flatly refuse, but this time the offer coincided with Francesca's Auntie Carlotta's Paris Tour.
"What do you mean, she no coming?" Francesca's aunt had stormed, "I am her aunt, I take care of her," she had assured, putting a protective arm around her niece. Anyway," she turned to her younger brother, Francesca's father, "Your daughter is a good girl, Paolo, not always in trouble like you were when you were nineteen, don't you remember?"
That had settled it. Francesca had been tempted to cheer for victory (Paris! The City of Light!), but instead had announced, with utmost haughty dignity, "If you will excuse me, I need to pack my trunk." She would have loved dearly to snap her fingers over her back and shout "Andiamo!" for the maid, but she knew that would have pushed it just too far.
However, when their train had pulled out of the station, she hadn't been able to resist sticking her head out the window and shouting, "Arrivaderci, La Scala!" and Auntie Carlotta had stuck her head out too, and said, "Paris, prepare for Carlotta and Francesca!"
Sadly, things hadn't gone as well from there. Of course Paris itself was beautiful, and so was the opera house itself . . . it was the people who were trouble. There was just . . . never anyone to talk to.
Of course there was always Aunt Carlotta, but she was always so busy, which was only to be expected. And the maids and most of the stagehands (except for one fellow named Buquet) were nice, but the other chorus girls were a trial. Meg Giry and Christine Daae had always been friendly, if somewhat vague, but the rest of them just had these icy looks. It was like they had all gotten a note that she hadn't, or something. And the men in the chorus did nothing but hassle the chorus girls as a whole, always waiting with another rude joke. And the rude jokes were never even very good ones; Francesca herself knew several that were much better.
It was just another day, a few people were chattering about the Opera Ghost (Francesca still wasn't clear on the story), Carlotta was threatening to quit, and Christine was talking about a strange dream she'd had recently, when all of the sudden, it was just too much for Francesca. She missed La Scala; she had grown up there, the other girls there were like her sisters, they would talk all night in the dormitories together and cheer if one of them had just come back from an evening out with an admirer. Her family lived there, and had been involved with the theatre for generations. It was home, and all in a rush she missed it so much it physically hurt.
"Madame Giry?" she asked, struggling to keep the emotion out of her voice. "I'm not feeling very well. Could I be excused from the rest of rehearsal?"
Francesca thought Mme. Giry looked concerned (but then, she realized, she always looked concerned), but all she said was, "Of course, child. Feel better."
Francesca walked deeper into the opera house, finally finding a little chapel. No one ever comes here, she thought. And then, sinking to her knees, she finally let herself cry and cry and cry.
That is until she heard a deep voice coming out of the shadows ask, "Why so sad?"
"Who's there?" she stammered, shocked out of her crying. Hadn't she picked this place for a little venting specifically because it was deserted?
Oh shit, thought Erik, Phantom of the Opera. What was he doing? He had only come to see if Christine was here for her voice lesson yet, and then he'd seen this girl, with her thick dark hair and big dark eyes, and she was just so sad he'd had to say something. But now she wanted a straight answer on who he was!
"Are you there?" Francesca asked again, getting a little angry this time. If this was one more person come to hassle her, she decided, she was finally going to take Auntie Carlotta up on her offer of having some Sicilian friends of hers, ahem, "take care of them."
"Yes," said Erik nervously; this had been so much easier with Christine, who, the first time he had spoken to her, had just said, "Angel of Music, is that you?" It had been so easy to say, "Um, yes, yes of course. Angel of music, that's me."
"I'm Erik," he said, emerging from the shadows, thinking Oh, the hell with it, and figuring if she ran from the sight of him in his mask, she would probably blame his Opera Ghost alter ego, not the Angel of Music (Christine had not yet put two and two together).
Francesca turned her head to see a very handsome man with a mask on half his face. She figured he must be a stagehand; they were always stealing bits of costumes and wearing them around. She smiled. "I'm Francesca," she said. "And I'm a little upset because I'm lonely here and my aunt is making yet another empty threat to quit because Piangi sat on her favorite hat and I really can't get the act three finale right." There, she thought, that told the truth without spilling out everything to this complete stranger. Although he is cute . . . stop it! she scolded herself. You can fixate on that later.
She's lonely too, thought Erik. And then he was shocked when she smiled again and said, "Come on, sit down if you're not busy. I could use some conversation." And it was nice, her smile. Not as nice as Christine's, but . . . had he ever seen Christine smile? He decided he'd think about that later, and sat down.
They talked for about an hour or so, about the Opera, about Italy, about everything, and as they talked, both of them were surprised to feel something like . . . recognition. Each found in the other one some indefinable spark that they recognized, something that fit.
As they got up to leave, Francesca for rehearsal and Erik for an appointment with one of the more discreet tailors in Paris, Erik was unsettled. He had gotten along with other people (Christine, Mme. Giry), but those relationships were all intensity. With this girl, he was just, well, he supposed he was happy. She made him laugh. And she seemed to like his company purely for its own sake; he had been the one to offer to help her with that finale she mentioned. Of course, it was nothing like what he felt for Christine, but still. He liked this. He liked her.
As for Francesca, she was ecstatic. She had finally found someone who she just seemed to click with, who made her laugh when she felt like crying. And someone so dashing . . . enough of that! she had to remind herself. She was far too busy and far too far from home to think of romance. But still. He had offered to meet with her again, to help with the finale, and she had accepted. Maybe she had maybe she had made a real friend at the Opera Populaire. Maybe it would be okay.