Chapter Text
Beijing, 1870. In the dead of night, the clock trumped nine. The streets - covered in earlier rainfall, were all empty, the tiny shops and big businesses all closed. Not a pin dropped nor whisper heard, except for the passing singsong of chilled breeze.
Where had everyone gone? Why the streets were so calm? Well, ten blocks down, where Beijing’s sole opera house stood, the people cramped together, forcing themselves inside with tickets in hands. All wanting to get a glimpse of the theatre's finest attraction; a young opera singer.
Two months ago, he made the local papers as the theatre's newest spectacle. His name was Lan Wangji, Lan Zhan. An ethereal sight to behold, who dressed in nothing but pristine fine white silk, and eyes of liquid gold, it’s a pity he closed them whenever he sang.
Upon his arrival, many spectators came to glance at his beauty. A beauty that blinded their sights and outshined even the brightest theatre lights. But in the end, his voice was what kept them returning for more. Ah, whenever he sang, his Godlike voice, intoxicating to the ears of the audience, would bounce off the walls within the theatre, sending tremors through the dimmed auditorium.
Such passion, such poise, such dedication, Lan Wangji carried himself with grace, and such, within his short time in Beijing, he found himself with many approaching suitors, be it man or woman. However, Lan Wangji dared not accept their expensive gifts or sincere promises.
No, he could not. Not when the phantom who lurked within the opera urged Lan Wangji not to.
You see, before Lan Wangji became the spectacle of the opera house - appearing in newspapers and banners and the radio stations, the theatre had been known throughout Beijing for not its performers, but something else. Something evil.
Rumors were, the opera house was owned by a phantom ghost. Although his appearances were rare, he made demands toward the theatre organizer. And whenever his requirements were ignored, the phantom would appear - face hidden away behind an iron mask, with promises of destruction.
Lan Wangji had heard about the ghost phantom. He thought it was merely a tale. However, upon the very first night when he retired into his room, he knew different.
While sitting in front of the embroidered mirror and combing through his silk locks, he heard a voice called out his name. A voice - raspy and menacing, and perhaps a bit youthful, of a man who spoke as if hidden away inside the walls of his room.
The voice claimed to be the phantom. Lan Wangji should’ve been afraid, but he was not. Not when the phantom confined to him the way a lover would, telling Lan Wangji all his secrets. The phantom spoke highly of him, told him he sang like an angel. An angel of music, the phantom referred to him as. The compliment made the tip of his ears burned a bright red.
That night, they spoke of many things.
The phantom told Lan Wangji he’d been living inside the theatre for far too many years and knew a great deal about music. To prove his point, he played the flute for Lan Wangji, and he played it well.
The way the phantom piped at the flute captivated Lan Wangji. The music gave him a fascinating sensation, sending vibrations rolling down his spine in waves. He wanted - needed to hear it for a second time, or forever even. So, suppressing his urge to resist, Lan Wangji promised the phantom that he shall keep their encounter a secret.
Pleased, that night the phantom left with promises of returning.
The phantom kept his promise. He returned the night after that, and the night after that, and the night after that. Despite the phantom never revealing himself, Lan Wangji remained content with hearing his voice within the walls of his room. And to Lan Wangji's shock, the phantom's menacing chatters gradually became calmer and more childlike throughout their encounter.
The phantom would play for Lan Wangji night after night after night. However, on his fifth visit, he asked Lan Wangji to join him. Lan Wangji did. Bracing himself beside the wooden wall, he sang lovingly alongside the phantom through the empty room, careful not to wake the others until his eyes dropped from sheer tiredness.
From then onward, while the phantom piped at his flute, Lan Wangji sang until the phantom hushed him from contentment, sending him off to bed. And when morning arrived, a rose, strained of blood-red, rested beside where Lan Wangji slept awaits for him - a gift from the phantom, that he cherished dearly until the petals withered away into dust.
Lan Wangji hoped that the day would come when the phantom would reveal himself to Lan Wangji. He desperately wanted to meet the face of the man who made him smile in his sleep. And no matter how hideous people claimed the phantom to be, Lan Wangji did not care.
However, his yearning never happened. Instead, a month following their meeting, like magic, the roses were no more and the phantom’s voice faded, never to have returned. From then onward, the only memories Lan Wangji carried of the nameless phantom appeared during the nights. For it was at night, in his dreams, the phantom came and speaks his name. And despite Lan Wangji's silent aching for something - someone he knew not of, he carried on, believing one day the phantom would play for him again.
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Lan Wangji emerged from behind the red curtains, an otherworldly beauty indeed. His hair, perhaps blacker than a starless night, flowed past his hips until the silk locks touched his knees. The gown he wore - white, untouched, and pure, hugged him almost too tight as the embellished fabric trailed three feet behind him as he walked the centered stage, appearing like a wingless angel.
The crowd of Beijing’s wealthy gasped. Some rubbed their eyes, other's mouths fell agape. Lan Wangji paid them no mind as he waited for the room of chatters to grow still. And when it did, using his heart, he sang heart until the clock chimed twelve.
The show had been another success with spectators gossiped on about it being the best in all of China. So when the crowds were all gone, leaving behind an empty, ghastly-looking theatre, all the performers and theatre operators went out in celebration. All except Lan Wangji, who retired to his chambers in a deafening silence.
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Gazing at himself through the half-cracked mirror, Lan Wangji began disrobing. The costume he wore was rather difficult, with tight knots and layered inner garments. After pulling the first silk layer off, he twisted his fingers at the corset knots behind him to get the rest of the fabric off, but the tied bow remained hitched in place. Sighing in defeat, Lan Wangji gave up and wiped away the red paint from his lips before proceeding to remove one silver pin at a time until his locks flowed freely.
Humming a sweet song his mother once sung to him on cold winter nights, Lan Wangji remained oblivious to the looming shadow figure hiding behind the curtains, eyeing him the same way one eye its prey, ravenous and starving.