This is killing me so I must write it. Please enjoy . . . the plot bunnies will devour my body otherwise. Vicious little things, aren't they?
There was a young man walking down the streets of Paris. He seemed to be seventeen to perhaps twenty years old. In a dark suit, holding a briefcase, he seemed to be the only one in the streets on this cool autumn night. He had dark hair, slicked back, and a handsome face, despite his frustrated frown.
He checked into a small inn near the Paris Opera House, and went to the Opera House itself without his briefcase. Work was being done to restore it, as he'd heard. But that was not his business-he was to meet someone that was considering donating equipment and volunteers to the Phantasma park in New York. As his father hadn't enjoyed the idea of returning to Paris (or rather, the idea of being arrested), Gustave had volunteered. After living the first ten years of his life there, he knew his way around, and eight years in New York with Erik, his father, made him wary of the world.
But back to the turn of events. Gustave was to meet the philanthropist that was so interested in the park here, on the front steps of the opera house, by nine o'clock in the morning. The streets were deserted, and decidedly grey and cool with the gloomy cloud cover.
A woman with a shock of fiery red hair strode out of one of the dingy shops on the street. She wore a long, expensive-looking coat, and had a rather pinched-looking face. She looked around, not seeming to see Gustave at first, but her eyes locked on him. Her gaze seemed to scrape over every detail of him that she could catch. Promptly, the woman (about Gustave's age, possibly a little older) marched up to Gustave.
"You are the representative from the Phantasma park, on Coney Island?" she asked. Her voice was one that sounded rather like a type chicken-only with a heavy accent, perhaps Italian.
"Yes, I am. My name is Gustave," he said, holding out his hand. She sniffily took it, shook it, and backed away like he had some disease.
"I am Madame Eveline. My mother was a singer at this opera house, Carlotta-" the woman bragged. After a moment or two of her gloating of family connections, an irritated Gustave responded.
"I see. Well, I don't know much of opera here in Paris. My mother, too, was a singer, but she tended to keep work and family separate. I believe she sung here too, as a chorus girl for a while before starring in a few roles. Now, are you in charge of the contract we might be making between the two companies?" For, if the deal was made, they would constantly have financial support for years to come, as long as some proceeds went to the acting company here and any employees of this-what was it called again?-Brillar Co, that was it-would be allowed free admittance to the performances should they want to see it.
"Yes," Eveline-Eviline, Gustave thought amusedly-said. "But my father is more in charge of money affairs. After his wife was murdered, he was simply distraught," said the woman with zeal, "But he finally got to marry my mother, a woman whom he could love and support, as an equal." That sounded all fine and nice. Except...
"So your mother and father were not married when you were born?" he asked, amused that this uptight girl had told him such an idea. Eveline looked flustered, red-faced at the idea.
"How dare you say such a thing! They loved one another!" she said. Gustave softened.
"I was only going to say that perhaps we had something in common, then," he said gently. She looked up in surprise, her eyes wide and her mouth a perfect little "o".
"I... my goodness. Anyway, my father said that he would like to hear something composed by one of the two men of the show. For some reason he believes that knowing they are doing well with their talents will convince him. I am to oversee any project you are doing-he wants me to move to New York to watch the shows. I always wondered what was the show like . . . if you can give him a performance here . . . if it is satisfactory, he will follow along with the contract." He was supposed to... compose something? And perform it?
"How long do I have?" He asked. Gustave was no genius... that was his father... but he could try.
"It depends. When the Opera House is done-a few months, perhaps-because he wants it to be the first production shown on the stage. Only to my family, of course," she said.
"I-that's an honor. I will do my best, but I'm no genius when it comes to composing. My father normally does that, but he couldn't make the trip," Gustave responded.
"If you want, you can go inside. It's rather dusty, but other than that, it's perfectly normal. They had to put in support beams to be sure it wouldn't collapse earlier on, but that's long since done. Unless you have somewhere where you'd like to compose by yourself," she made the last phrase a question. Her voice wasn't as bird-like anymore, though maybe it was still reminiscent of a clucking chicken if one listened hard enough. Some of her uptight demeanor had disappeared as well.
"Maybe I will. Care to give me a tour?"
"You've never gone in to see your mother sing?"
"No. I stayed home most of the time. I've only seen a few of her performances, but that was a long time ago." Eveline sighed and led him up the steps.
Saying that the opera house was 'rather dusty' was like saying his first reaction to his father's face was 'slightly scared'. Gustave was pretty sure he'd walked through six fairly large cobwebs before they'd even set foot in the auditorium area. And swallowed twice as much dust as he'd ever seen in his life. He coughed.
"Eveline, I do hope you realize that this isn't perfectly normal?" he said, gesturing to the layers of dust.
"Not all of it is dust. Some of the ash from the huge fire is still here," she said.
"Fire?" She looked at Gustave like he'd grown a second head. He shrugged.
"Must have been before my time, or after I left."
"It was about eighteen years ago."
"I'm eighteen years old-that makes sense."
"Hm... my mother had told me the story as a child. Back when she was a star, this place was haunted, they say, by a phantom. It had been that way for so many years that he became known as the Phantom of the Opera..." And so she told him the tale. After she'd said his mother's name, and that of his unknowingly adoptive father and his real father-for who else did he know that wore a mask?-Gustave knew better than to tell her that his father was the phantom himself.
"Perhaps I can compose something to do with this story... there will be a lot of organ music.. I'll see what I can do. Perhaps dress as the Phantom and get myself someone to play Christine..." Gustave's mind was working on overdrive.
"My mother doesn't sing anymore-"
"-No. Well, I'll figure something out. I'd say you could play as Meg, but I don't think you'd like that very much... I'll be ready when the theater is done, have no fear. Do you know where the catacombs are?"
"I was told... let's find out, shall we?" Gustave grinned. Without the threat of anyone she knew seeing her, this girl was quite the daredevil.
After taking some passages, we found the catacombs and the underground lake, which was amazing to see. However, Eveline lost some of her bravado at seeing the place, and soon, they departed.
Tossing and turning in bed, Gustave later dreamt of strange faces and haunting voices, and most of all, his father's mask...
Planning on this being a oneshot, but if you guys like it, then by all means, let me know and I'll continue. :)