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fellowshippers2006-12-21 10:49 pm
v-angelique.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2006-12-21 10:49 pm
Crosspost: The Phantom of St. James
Title: The Phantom of St. James
Author: Viktoria Angelique (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
v_angelique)
Pairing: It's a surprise. Okay I know that's mean, but it kind of has to be for this. Billy is a really main character, though! It's Billy/somebody, I'll say that at least.
Rating: R
Length: Fic
Disclaimer: True? No.
Summary: This is a crosspost of something I wrote for my "slashy advent calendar" gift series, but since it's a "real" full-length fic I wanted to put it here as well. This is essentially a combination of the Phantom of the Opera (at least how *I* think it should've turned out) and the actual history of the St. James Theatre, where The Importance of Being Earnest was shown in 1895. Since coming up with the story and writing part of it, I saw Wilde, but that's not where any of this comes from. Some people (George Alexander, Mrs. John Wood, Lord Alfred, Lord Queensberry) are real people, and some of the history (the renovation, for example) is real. The rest is fiction. If you really want to know what's what, well, you can ask!
The theatre was completely empty when Billy showed up on King Street, earlier than the rest of the cast or even the stage manager. They would continue rehearsals this week for Oscar Wilde’s new play, The Importance of Being Earnest, and as was his ritual, Billy was the first one there, sprawling out on the stage dead centre, his limbs askew as he took a deep breath to centre himself.
Feel the stage, he had learned from his years of experience in acting. Be a part of the theatre, and the theatre will give back to you ten times over. He knew it sounded a little silly, but Billy firmly believed in the theatre and its power to make or break an actor. He didn’t take much stock in spirits, or the mysterious “Phantom of St. James” that some of the younger actors would allude to in whispers. They said that a mysterious man lurked in the shadows, whispering secrets to help or harm the actors as he saw fit. But to Billy, the only one who could make or break his performance was himself.
As he sat up, finally, shaking out his muscles and digging the script from his discarded shoulder bag, he looked up and waved to Viggo, the stagehand, and the only other person in the building. Some thought Viggo was a little crazy, but Billy liked him. Viggo understood the theatre, and if he could be a little grouchy sometimes, it was usually because his latest victim desperately deserved it.
In the shadows, a man watched as the single figure stretched and breathed, filling the stage with his presence. For the first time in years, this man smiled, and ducked away into the wings before anyone else arrived.
First to arrive that morning was Mrs. Wood, unsurprisingly, with the young Elijah in tow. Mrs. John Wood, as she was known in the theatre, had been St. James’ owner from 1869 to 1876, and in charge of one of its grandest redecorations. She was also the leading lady at the time, and was now making an effort to pass that role on to her only son.
Billy felt sorry for Elijah, he really did. As he led his mother down the aisle by the arm, the young man looked quite bored, and Billy imagined he had little choice but to enter the acting profession. The boy really was a bit of a priss, but that couldn’t be his fault, as his mum blatantly encouraged such behaviour.
Next to enter was a trio of well-dressed men. Billy recognized Harry Sinclair and Sean Bean, the new theatre managers to owner George Alexander. They, of course, played out of Mrs. Wood’s hand as much as anyone at this theatre, and were largely responsible for Elijah’s casting. The third man was slightly younger and had almost a foppish look, if it weren’t for the obvious expense of his tailored suit and white gloves, hair tied back with a ribbon. Orlando Bloom was a well-known patron of the arts, having recently come into quite a bit of money and now courted heavily by the other two men for his ready supply of cash donations. Furthermore, he had taken a liking to Billy in the last Wilde production, Lady Windamere’s Fan, and had been making as much of an attempt at courtship as any man could to another man in 1895.
Billy allowed Orlando a small smile, nodding politely at the other men, and cleared the stage, content to sit back and watch as people began filing in and bustling around, preparing for first rehearsal. Billy overheard Mrs. Wood giving Elijah “tips” and tried not to laugh out loud. Elijah would be playing Jack Worthing, also known as Ernest, and therefore had the challenge of playing a double role. Mrs. Wood’s advice mainly consisted of “large facial expressions,” something for which she was comically known in her own acting days. Billy, who was playing Lane, a manservant who appeared only in the first act, felt rather sorry for Elijah in this moment.
As the rehearsals began to kick into gear, Billy did as he was told, delivering his lines perfectly, few though they were. Truthfully, however, he didn’t really care. This was a far cry from the farm in Scotland where he had grown up. The theatre, for better or worse, was Billy’s home. And no one, not doting stage mums nor eager-to-please managers, could take that away from him.
“Um, hello William. May I have a moment?”
Billy looked up in surprise and found Orlando Bloom loitering in the doorway of the common dressing room. The production wasn’t large in terms of cast, so only a few actors used the room, and Billy was the only one at the moment, loitering for a while after the first rehearsal.
He certainly wouldn’t tell Orlando this, but there was a reason he had been lurking more and more after hours lately at the St. James. While his role as the manservant required very little of his skill as an actor, he also had to memorize Jack’s lines for his duty as an understudy, and as he had recited them alone in the wings or in this room, he had sometimes heard whispers from the shadows, guiding him. Anyone would think he was crazy, but Billy just figured it was the theatre, paying him back for his respect for its grandeur all these years. He had been hoping for these voices to visit him again tonight, but he wasn’t disappointed to see Orlando, clasping his gloved hands in front of his body with a shy smile and hopeful chocolate eyes.
“Of course, sir. Please, come in.”
“Oh, um, thank you. Please William, call me Orlando. I’ve been watching you act since Windamere; it feels strange hearing such a title from your lips.”
Billy smiled kindly and gestured for Orlando to sit, nodding at his request. “Then, Orlando, I would entreat you as well to drop formality and call me Billy. What can I do for you this evening?”
“Oh, thank you Billy,” Orlando replied with a smile broader than a small kindness in the matter of names would suggest. “I’ve come tonight, actually, to ask you a question. I was wondering,” he explained as he sat down, pulling the chair indicated closer to Billy’s own. “Might you do me the honour of joining me for dinner tomorrow evening? I have several rooms in a neighbourhood not far from the theatre, and I would most enjoy your company,” he finished, his eyes pleading and his expression so shy and desperate that Billy would hardly believe that this was indeed a wealthy nobleman if he hadn’t known his name for quite some time.
“Thank you, Orlando. That would be lovely. When would you like me to arrive?”
Orlando grinned widely, taking Billy’s hands in his own in an unexpectedly passionate display of enthusiasm. “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve accepted, Billy! Please, come directly after rehearsal. I’ll have the cook prepare something special for just us two.”
Billy almost thought he heard a groan from behind him, but chalked it up to imagination and simply smiled at Orlando. “I’ll be there, Orlando, certainly. Thank you for the invitation.”
As Orlando vanished from the room in a clumsy flurry of movement that made Billy smile and shake his head, Billy slid his chair back from the countertop, clasping his hands in his lap. The door shut behind the young theatre patron and he was again alone, whispering snippets of lines to himself and half-listening for anything unusual.
Waiting for a date with the voices in your head, he chided himself in a condescending mental tone, barking out a wry laugh. Determined not to be ridiculous, he gathered his things and instead exited through a door leading towards the stage, placing his hat on his head and standing briefly in the wings. From here he watched Viggo’s crew sweeping the stage and clearing away props for the next rehearsal, the eccentric older man waving a hand to him with a grin before he went back to yelling at his staff, and then headed out of the theatre with a soft smile. As he walked down the cobblestone street, the gas lamps just illuminating his path, he had the distinct feeling of being watched. He looked up quickly, but a flurry of movement in the upper windows of the theatre was followed by utter stillness. Billy was losing his mind.
Early the next evening, before rehearsal and even before Billy went up to the stage, he sat in the common dressing room, collecting his thoughts. It had been a long day and he needed a moment alone—however, that is far from what he got.
"Don't move," a voice commanded him, just over his shoulder. He whipped around quickly, giving the drawn curtains that formed a makeshift partition a suspicious look. "Don't try to see me," the voice added, and he shivered. It wasn't a threatening tone, however. It was just a voice. And it was a voice he knew well, though he had never heard it so clear and resolute—so much for the "voices of the theatre" theory.
"What do you want?" he asked, uncertain, standing from his chair and backing slowly away from the curtains and from the disembodied voice, not the theatre itself, Billy was certain, but an actual man.
There was a laugh, low and rumbling. Billy found himself drawn to the sound. "Nothing sinister, my dear boy. I want to tutor you."
"You want to… what?" Billy furrowed his brow, not understanding.
"I have been in this theatre many years. I have lived in this theatre many years. I was an actor too, once. I have been content to whisper to you, to offer simple advice with your lines thus far, but I want to give you more. I see something in you… more than any actor here you respect the theatre, and I am the theatre."
"You… you're the Phantom!" Billy exclaimed, though his tone held more awe and respect than fear.
"Not so loud," the voice warned. "We haven't much time. Can you return tonight? At midnight, here."
"I can… I can try, but the theatre will be locked…"
"Never mind that. The west entrance, you will be able to open it. Will you be here?"
"I… meaning no disrespect, Sir," he began carefully, feeling a little silly addressing the voice as 'Sir,' not even knowing to whom he was speaking, "but I'm only a small part. Not worth your time, really. If you're wanting to coach someone, I think Elijah might be able to use it a bit more," he admitted, and the voice laughed again, evidently catching the double meaning.
"Yes, he might, but I have no desire to offer the young Mr. Wood my coaching. You are the understudy for Jack, are you not?" Billy nodded, and then realizing that the voice could not see him, affirmed vocally. "Good. Tonight."
And with a slight rustle to the heavy blue curtains, Billy was alone.
The rehearsal that night was tense, and by the time Billy returned to the dressing room, he had almost forgotten about his dinner date. In fact, all his focus had been turned on the earlier meeting, on the mysterious man behind the curtain—the Phantom, Billy was almost certain. Others would say that he wasn't a man at all, but a spirit or a ghost, and indeed the voice had said that he was the theatre. But Billy caught a different meaning in the words. He heard something human in the voice, some emotion, a hint of pain and betrayal. "I was an actor too, once," the voice had said. No, Billy was certain, much more than he had been through the past months as he listened to these whispers from the shadows. It was not a ghost or a spirit who had been leading him, but a man.
This was the direction in which his thoughts tended as he prepared to leave, and he would've forgotten his dinner plans entirely if it wasn't for the whispers, the young female actors telling of Billy's acquaintance with the wealthy patron Orlando. They were jealous, and they did not look upon him kindly, but Billy didn't much care. He was too old for such gossip. Rubbing at his eyes wearily, Billy dressed quickly for dinner and left the theatre, not seeing the clear blue eyes that looked down at his tired form in sympathy as he headed out into the street.
When he reached Orlando's house, the butler let him in immediately, taking his coat and then leading him to the lavishly appointed sitting room before pouring wine into an honest-to-God crystal goblet and going off to inform the "master" of his presence. Billy felt very ill-at-ease, nothing like he did in the theatre despite its own ornate appointments, and the smile he offered Orlando when the young man entered the room was a shaky one.
"Billy! I'm so glad you came," he effused, smile wide, crossing the room immediately to join Billy on the antique sofa and clasp both hands in his once Billy had set his wine down. The butler poured a glass for Orlando and then left the room, and Billy almost wished he would stick around.
"It's my pleasure," he answered formally, sitting very straight as he watched the excitable young man launch into chatter about the theatre and society and politics, barely letting Billy get a word in edgewise. Still, Billy was content to smile and nod, for his thoughts focused not on Orlando but rather on the play and the strange man who whispered from the shadows of the theatre and had promised him a mysterious lesson.
Dinner itself passed similarly, and by the time they were in the sitting room again, enjoying an after-dinner coffee, it was after eleven o clock.
"You have beautiful eyes, Billy," Orlando said bluntly, his hand coming up to touch Billy's cheek. The older man blushed, and turned said eyes downward, and his young suitor smiled. "I mean it."
"Thank you," Billy replied simply, and he felt his chin being tipped up, and soft lips pressed to his own. He wasn't surprised, per se, but the butler and the maid were lurking somewhere, and Billy couldn't relax his body completely. "We shouldn't…" he began when Orlando finally pulled away, but the young man just smiled.
"It's fine. Robert and Nora won't say anything, if that's what you're concerned about. They're very discrete."
"No, it's just…" Billy sighed, and smiled at Orlando, for the man really was sweet and incredibly attractive, despite his tiresome enthusiasm. "I have somewhere I need to be," he admitted, regretting the words at Orlando's expression. "I'm sorry, it's just… business. I have to attend to."
"So late?" Orlando asked, his eyes suspicious.
"I'm afraid so. It isn't you," he assured the man, placing a hand on his knee. "I've enjoyed myself, Orlando. I just can't stay."
Orlando bit his lower lip, but nodded, seeming to accept the excuse. "You'll come again?"
"Of course," Billy replied warmly, and Orlando smiled.
"Are you going to stay there the whole time?" Billy asked later that night as he looked up into the rafters above the stage, his voice a little weak. "I mean, why can't you come down and let me see you? I won't tell anyone who you are…"
The voice in the rafters laughed, and Billy frowned. "You musn't see me, lad. I am dangerous to you, to anyone. I would only harm you, and I have no desire to do that. There are those I would choose to harm," he admitted, and a cold chill ran through Billy's body at the sincerity of those words, "but you are not one of them. Far from it," he added, as an almost inaudible afterthought.
Billy cocked his head to the side, and nodded. "Okay. What do you have to teach me, then? I'm eager to learn."
There was another laugh, a rich sound towards which Billy felt oddly possessive. "You have to be unafraid, lad. Don't be afraid to make your audience nervous—because you will. You're a brilliant actor, and the way you say my words will make them a little uncomfortable. As it should."
"Your words?" Billy asked, frowning. So the Phantom was appropriating Wilde's play now?
"Yes, William. My words."
"I don't understand."
"Well I will tell you, then, because it may make you more inclined to trust my coaching. You see, Oscar Wilde did not write this play at all."
"He didn't?" Billy sat down on the stage, legs crossed in front of him, looking suspiciously up in the direction of the voice.
"I'm afraid not. Not that he would be incapable of such a work, and in fact I drew much of the inspiration from him, but no, my dear boy, Oscar did not write the play. I wrote the play in the seventies, by which point my reputation as a theatre spirit had not yet been secured, but I had still been living here for several years. I found Oscar here once, late at night, mourning the loss of a lover who had moved on to marriage and children. I felt sorry for him, and so I passed on my manuscript. I offered it to him as his own."
"But… why don't you come out of hiding, then?" Billy asked, furrowing his brow. "Why don't you direct the play?"
The voice laughed and Billy could imagine the Phantom shaking his head. "Too dangerous, and too late, I'm afraid. But it's no time for stories, my dear boy. We have work to do."
And work they did, well into the night and for several nights after that, which turned into several weeks. The closer they came to opening night, the more Billy wanted to know of this man, this "ghost" who lurked in the wings and the rafters but always refused to show his face. He thought perhaps the man was disfigured, and once mentioned it, offering to let him come out, promising not to react badly, that he didn't care about looks, that he wanted to see his tutor. But the Phantom had just laughed, and refused. Billy sighed and didn't ask again, but he began to feel strongly towards this tragic figure—for though he did not know the Phantom's story, he was sure that it was tragic. And more than that, he felt companionship, felt that the man understood. He was as much a part of the theatre as Billy was, if not more. He understood Billy's need to be here, the need to call St. James home. Billy had found a kindred spirit, and at times in their rehearsing, a little chuckle or a certain remark would clue Billy in to the Phantom's personality—he imagined a slightly wicked man, a naughty man, an amusing man and above all a passionate man. He wished he could meet the Phantom in person.
At the same time; however, Billy was seeing Orlando, for he had no real reason not to, and the man was attractive and available and quite enamoured of him. They kissed, several more times, after dinners in Orlando's rooms, but always Billy had to leave before midnight. Orlando began to suspect that Billy was in some sort of trouble, offered him money if Billy needed it, but always he politely refused with a smile and a shake of the head. He wasn't in trouble, he insisted. He just had an appointment to keep.
A few days before the opening, the Phantom made a request. Orlando had just come to see Billy again in the dressing room, once it had finally cleared of all the bustle of a dress rehearsal, and as soon as he left, Billy felt a rustling in the curtain. He turned, and sure enough, there was the phantom's voice.
"William."
"Yes?" he whispered, scooting his chair closer.
"That fellow, Orlando. I'd like you not to see him anymore."
Billy frowned, caught off guard. "What? Why?"
"He isn't right for you. He's a nice boy, but… rather vapid."
Billy sighed, though he'd occasionally had the same thought himself. Still, he was an independent man. "What right do you have to choose whom I see or don't see?"
There was a long pause, and Billy almost thought the Phantom had left.
"I have no such right. But I would like you not to see him."
Billy was a little surprised, but not really, when he claimed to be ill the next time Orlando asked him to dinner. He could picture the Phantom, lurking in the wings looking smug. The thought unsettled him.
The first letter showed up two days before the opening. Viggo, blending into the background as he did so well, heard Sean as he read it aloud to Harry and then passed the information on to Billy.
"Dear Sirs," the letter read. "It is my sincere hope that you will heed this warning. Mister William Boyd will be opening in the part of Jack Worthing, while Mister Elijah Wood will play the part of Lane in the upcoming production. If you do not follow these instructions, you can be certain that things will not go according to plan. Sincerely, the Phantom of St. James."
"It's a lark!" Harry exclaimed, shaking his head. "A ruse! What could he do, anyway? He's a bloody ghost!"
"He's not a ghost," Sean argued. "He's a man. But a man can be locked up, and if he thinks he can lurk around this theatre without paying any rent, and then expect to order us around regarding the casting of our plays, he's got another thing coming. I'll speak to Mrs. Wood."
Mrs. Wood, of course, was livid, but she was even more livid when, an hour before curtain on opening night, her son suddenly disappeared.
Everyone scoured the theatre, but the boy could not be found. Some blamed Billy, but there was nothing for it. He would have to play Jack. From the wings, Viggo winked at him, and Billy was almost unsurprised.
Opening night went off without a hitch. Billy delivered his lines as the Phantom had instructed—subtly, capturing the irony of the double role in a way that made the audience guffaw with laughter. And, he had to admit, the lines the Phantom had written were brilliant. Just enough of a hint at the hypocrisy of society without outright saying it, the kind of play that would make people laugh and make fun of a class of which they did not realize they were a part.
Billy soaked in the applause at curtain call with a beaming grin on his face, able for just a moment to pretend that he was the star they had come to see, not just the understudy. As he stood front and centre, his eyes flicked briefly up to the rafters, and his smile widened when he saw a quick flurry of movement there—his tutor had been watching.
After the night's festivities were over, of course, it was a different story. Mrs. Wood was in a panic until, just as everyone was leaving the theatre, Elijah emerged as if in a daze, weeping in his mother's arms as the managers and other theatre staff surrounded the pair and doted on the poor boy. Billy had to hold himself back from snorting, but he remained nearby, wanting to hear the story. Elijah, apparently, had been captured by the Phantom of St. James himself—at least that was what he thought, for he never actually saw the man himself. He had been caught in some sort of a trap, hands tied and blindfolded before he knew what was going on, and dragged away to a set of rooms deep in the bowels of the building. He didn't know where they were, exactly, and he had been blindfolded when he left, so he couldn't show them back to his place of capture. Though he played the traumatized victim, Billy was able to glean from his dialogue that Elijah had not been hurt, and he was relieved. His Phantom, at least, was not a violent man, but simply purposeful. He only wished he knew what that purpose was.
"Billy!"
Orlando came running forward, not with a smile on his face but with a look of deep concern, just as Billy was about to leave the theatre. He frowned, but allowed Orlando to approach, his eyes darting briefly around the corridor to see if they were alone. Of course, he got this feeling that you could never be alone in this theatre, but that was preposterous. The Phantom was only a man. Billy didn't believe in ghosts.
"Thank God you're all right…"
"Orlando, what's the matter? I'm fine, it was Elijah who was captured…"
"No, no Billy, you don't understand. I've figured it out. Your role, the understudy… you said you'd had special instruction, yes?" he asked, out of breath. Billy nodded, his eyes narrowing. "Your tutor! It's the Phantom, isn't it?"
"Orlando, I…"
"No, Billy, listen to me. He's dangerous, whatever he is… you can't be hanging around him, or coming back to the theatre at night. He's harmed Elijah, he might harm you, and I couldn't live with myself…"
"Orlando, please. Slow down."
"It just all makes so much sense, you know. I don't see why I didn't see it before! The Phantom demands that you play the role of Jack, and then Elijah is mysteriously kidnapped just before the show, and then there you are, brilliant as ever, perfectly prepared… Billy, this can't end well."
"I don't see why not," Billy replied with a frown.
"He's dangerous! He could be all manner of things, Billy, from a ruffian to a killer. Do you know what they say about him? Some say he's a ghost, haunting the theatre to avenge his dead lover…"
"Orlando, that's balderdash and you know it. He's a man, same as any other man…"
"Have you seen him?" Orlando demanded.
"Well… no…"
"There! You can't prove that he's not a ghost, or something even more sinister. Billy, I know he's seductive, I know he probably has powers… I understand that, but you’ve got to listen to me. Come back to my rooms; I can keep you safe…"
"Orlando, I don't need protection, and I'm not being seduced. I'll be fine at home. He won't leave the theatre, anyway."
"I don't know…"
"I'll be fine. Please, Orlando. I'll see you at tomorrow night's showing." Billy leaned up to give the man a reassuring kiss on the cheek, and Orlando looked like he wanted to say more, but refrained, nodding and heading back the way in which he had come to allow Billy to leave through the side entrance, pulling his coat tight around his shoulders and looking carefully from side to side as he walked. He needed to get to the bottom of this, but first, he needed to sleep.
"But of course Elijah will be playing Jack tonight, Mrs. Wood. We've hired extra security, and he is under personal protection of the theatre. William will be playing Lane, and if there's any more funny business we will be sure that he is removed from the employ of the theatre…"
Billy shuddered from where he sat in costume, overhearing. Sure enough, two hired thugs sat on either side of Elijah with revolvers at their sides, ready to fend off any foul play that might occur. And Billy knew it wouldn't—the Phantom wasn't stupid, and unless he was some sort of hulking muscle man with a gun, he wasn't going to be able to break these defenses. Still, Billy was nervous.
The reviews from the previous evening had been wonderful, and another letter had arrived for Sean and Harry, warning them that further disaster might occur, were they to cast Elijah again. Hence the extra security, and yet, Billy was astute enough to note that the recipient of said disaster was not outlined in the letter. He delivered his few lines, therefore, with shaking hands, and as soon as the curtain was drawn, he hurried to find the stagehand.
"Viggo!"
"Whoa there, Billy, catch your breath, hang on a second, theatre isn't going to come crashing down in the next five minutes." Viggo stood on a platform above the wings, and Billy a few feet away from him, hands on his knees, panting hard. He had searched the theatre at a run, up and down, nearly knocking over a few actors and crew, and finally had been tipped off that Viggo was up here.
"You don't know that," Billy argued. "I want to ask you about the Phantom."
Viggo frowned.
"C'mon, Viggo, I know you know who he is! He's been helping me, but now I'm afraid he's going to hurt people, and…"
"Whoa there, Billy, slow down now. Do you really think Ian is going to hurt anyone? I mean, from what you know of him, of what he's done since you've been here, does he seem like the hurtful type?"
"Well, no, but… Ian? That's his name?"
Viggo nodded. "That's his name. The 'Phantom of St. James,'" he added with a wry little smile. "Come, Billy, sit down and I'll tell you what I can."
Nodding, Billy followed Viggo to a small room, more of a storage closet, but there were two chairs and he gratefully lowered himself into one.
"Now I don't normally say anything about Ian, to anyone. You understand?" His look was hard, and Billy nodded. "But I'll make an exception for you, because I think you care about him despite not having ever seen him, and I think he must care about you, given the circumstances."
"Okay."
"You see, Ian hasn't come out of hiding since the seventies, when he went into it. He was younger then, of course, a very attractive man, and might have been successful, but his fortune went bad. Near as I know, he was a fairly famous actor here at the theatre in the fifties, bit before my time. And he had a lover in the theatre too, name was Dominic."
Billy nodded, piecing together the information. He'd heard of an actor named Ian, once, a long time ago… McCullen, maybe? Something like that. But no one really talked about him, not like the big names of St. James history.
"Anyway, he didn't try to hide, you know, he or Dominic. They were together, and very in love, and everyone knew it. And as you can imagine, some people didn't like it. Mrs. Wood, particularly, didn't like it."
Billy nodded again, for it made sense. Tolerance towards men who preferred the same gender had never been very high, in his lifetime at least, and he knew how important discretion was. Everyone did.
"Anyway, he didn't much care, but then Mrs. Wood became the owner in sixty nine, and she cared quite a lot. So she had Dominic killed."
Billy gasped, and Viggo nodded sympathetically.
"Yeah. It was hard times. I knew about it, I mean I was always a theatre brat, working on the crew and such since we moved to England when I was twelve, and I was twenty-two when it happened. I was good at not being noticed, blending in, and hearing things. She set it up to look like an accident, during the big renovation, had a piece of wood fall down on his head, but it was all planned. Well I thought that was something awful, of course, and I told Ian about it. He was mighty depressed, and didn't much care about anything anymore. Certainly couldn’t get much of a role in Mrs. Wood's theatre, no matter how good he was, and so he sold everything he had in London and decided to stay here, where Dominic had died."
"Where does he live, then? I mean, does he ever leave?"
"No," Viggo replied, shaking his head. "I take care of him, you know, bring food and such. I helped him to find his rooms, because I knew every nook and cranny of this place, even back then. He lives underground, far underground, and it’s a maze down there. Impossible to find if you don't know what you're looking for, in the sub-basements. That's how I managed to hide Elijah the other night without anyone noticing."
"You hid Elijah?" Billy exclaimed.
Viggo allowed himself a small grin. "Yeah, well, Ian's not as young as he used to be. The little bugger's squirmy, but I could hold him down well enough. Didn't hurt him a lick, though, Ian made me promise that. Just scared the boy. His mother's the real problem, anyway."
Billy nodded in agreement. "So he just lives down there, then, underground."
"Yeah. A lot of it is kind of dank and dirty, but his rooms are nice, all furnished in the style that was popular then."
"And he's just been hanging around the theatre ever since he set up there?"
"Right. He doesn't come out much. He watches the plays, and sometimes he even gives the younger actors a little push in the right direction—the rumours you've heard, about whispers and such, that's him. That's what he did for you, too, but… well it's something more, now."
"He doesn't normally tutor people like he does for me?" Billy asked, a little surge of hope welling up in his chest.
"Never has. He trusts you, I think, maybe sees a little of himself in you. You were the actor he wrote the part of Jack for, I think, and so he's put himself at risk to make sure you get it."
Billy frowned. "I never meant…"
"I know you didn't. We never do. But I think it's good, you know. He's never cared for anyone really since Dominic died, never had any companions outside of myself. Maybe it's time old Ian found someone new."
Billy smiled, catching his meaning, and nodded. "I want you to take me to him, Viggo."
"Well now, I don't know about that…" Viggo argued. "I mean, he never told you you could see him. I don't think he wants to hurt you, and he might, you know. They don't like him much, and they don't know where he lives. If they caught him right out, or if they looked too hard… I just don't want trouble, Billy."
"It won't be trouble. I need to see him, all right? I need this, and you're a good man, Viggo. Please?"
Viggo hesitated a long beat. "All right. I'll take you to his rooms. But I can't guarantee he'll see you."
"That's all right. I can do the talking. Is he there now?"
"Should be, yeah." Viggo nodded. "He'll be in a right bad mood after tonight, though. C'mon."
And so they went down, to the stage level and below, and then below again through a twisting maze of corridors and stairways and doors and finally to a solid oak door that was unimportant looking and unremarkable. Billy never would've found it without help, and it made him feel marginally better about Ian's safety, as well as grateful to the stagehand for showing him the way. He stood back from the door, and Viggo knocked twice.
"I wish to be alone now, Viggo!" the familiar voice called from inside. Billy's breath caught in his throat.
"It's not me, Ian. It's Billy. He asked me about you and, well, I told him. He wants to see you." From inside, there was an unintelligible string of curses, and a bang, and then the voice was directly behind the door.
"William, you should go."
"No," Billy replied, gesturing to Viggo that he should go; Billy could find his way back. "Please, Ian. I want to see you. I want to… touch you," Billy admitted, without hesitation.
There was a long pause, and then Ian spoke again. "That cannot happen. I've done too much already, put you in too much danger. If we meet, we'll go past the point of no return, and I can't have that."
"Goddamnit, Ian," Billy sighed, leaning against the doorway and slumping down to sit on the cold stone floor. "What about what I want? I don't give a damn about danger. If I wanted easy and safe, I'd go with Orlando. But I didn't. He offered to let me spend the night with him last night, away from you, and I didn't. And I'm here now."
Behind the door, Ian sighed. "Dominic died, William. Dominic died, and I couldn't protect him. I can't protect you, and I won't have history repeat itself. Good night, William," he said simply, and Billy could hear footsteps leading away. He tried the door, and it was locked. Sighing in frustration, Billy turned away to find his way back. He wouldn't get to Ian tonight, but eventually, he would.
Three nights passed, and nothing dramatic happened. There were no more letters, no efforts to put Billy back in the lead. But more importantly—to Billy at least—there was no sign of Ian. There were no rustling curtains, no soft whispers from the shadows, no movement in the darkness. No feeling of being watched. Just, nothing.
He tried to return to the rooms below the theatre, but every time he headed that way, he realized that he was being watched. Viggo was like a hawk, impossible to trick, and always looking out for him. Acting under orders, Billy realized. But tonight, the theatre was especially busy. There were rumours—Lord Alfred Douglas's father was in the audience, the same Lord Alfred with whom Oscar Wilde had been seen about London. Presumably, the man was Wilde's lover, and Lord Queensberry, his father, would now see the play. The conservative man would doubtless hate it, and there were concerns about funding. To Billy, it was just another show, but in the second act, he found his opening. Extra anxiety meant that Viggo was extra busy, and Billy was able to slip off, undetected.
It took nearly twenty minutes to find, with several wrong turns, but he finally found himself in front of Ian's door. Reaching into his pocket, he found the small steel rod he had bought off an urchin who sometimes hung about his neighbourhood, and successfully jimmied the lock. What he found inside nearly broke his heart.
On a divan richly upholstered in vibrant burgundy velvet, swirling a glass of deep red wine, an old man sat, shoulders hunched, elbows on his knees. He might have been beautiful once, and still was, in Billy's opinion, seeing him for the first time in profile, but he was also deeply sad. Without hesitation, Billy walked over to the divan, ignoring the man's startled gasp, and sat next to him, one hand on Ian's knee to prevent escape.
"I won't let you run away from me," he said simply. "We've made it past the point of no return, it seems, so I guess we've just got to keep on going."
"William… you shouldn't be here," Ian protested, his voice soft and distinguished, the accent quite proper. It wasn't hard to imagine how that voice might have carried to the upper boxes in Ian's youth, captivating London audiences, or how he might have whispered to his flamboyant young lover and fellow thespian in deep, rolling tones. It was the same voice that Billy had been hearing from the shadows all this time, and almost strange to finally have a face and a body attached to it, to see the man to whom it belonged.
"Billy," he corrected automatically, squeezing the knee under his hand and lifting the other hand to the wrinkled, but still soft skin of Ian's face. "Call me Billy, please."
"I told you, Billy. This can only end badly."
"You told me," Billy agreed. "But I refuse to believe you. That one night was worth it for me, Ian. I'm no star of the stage like you, but you gave me that one night, and now I'm content to hide away forever if I have to."
"But you shouldn't hide," Ian objected. "You're young, you have a life ahead of you. I take back what I said before, you should see Orlando, and…"
"No," Billy interrupted. "I have no desire to see Orlando. He's a nice boy, but I would bore myself. He's young, and he doesn't know half of what you do. You know what it's like, you know what draws me to the theatre and why it's my home more than Scotland or my gran's farm can ever be. You know what it's like to lose yourself in the words of brilliant men long dead, and I think you know why I'm here tonight, why I don't give a shite about all the things that other people say are important. Please, Ian," Billy begged, stroking the man's hair. "I need to hear that you can learn to love me. If there's no possibility, I'll go, but I need to hear it from your lips."
Ian laughed, bitterly, and then looked Billy in the eye. "I can't say that, and you know it."
Billy grinned happily and leaned in. "I know," he whispered, just before pressing his lips to Ian's. He kissed the older man until he felt the resistance melt away, until Ian pulled Billy to lie atop him on the divan and snaked his arms around the younger man's waist. This was progress.
Meanwhile, backstage…
"Despicable! Absolutely despicable! You think I don't know what those foul words are hinting at? You think I don't hear the rumours that are circulating about my son…"
Lord Queensberry was, quite literally, red in the face, and Harry and Sean were in full placate-mode, trying to diffuse his threats and convince him to sit down and have a cup of tea.
"I will have this show cancelled, mark my words! Cancelled, I say, and your theatre bankrupt and this despicable playwright thrown in jail!"
As the two managers paled and tried desperately to get the venerable old man to retract his words, however, another young man was standing off to the side, his face twisting into an unreadable expression. Lord Alfred was getting an idea.
"Father, I have some information that might interest you," the fair-haired young man announced, stepping forward. The conversation stopped, and the older man raised an eyebrow at his son. "About the play."
"Yes, boy? Go on."
"Well you see, father, I agree with you of course," Lord Alfred began, the irony in his tone undetectable to a man who was accustomed to the utmost respect from everyone he knew. "The play is despicable, appalling really, but you see, it isn't Oscar who wrote it. And furthermore, it is not the fault of these men that it's being staged, at all."
There was a long pause, in which Lord Queensberry eyed his son with a look of confusion and curiosity, and in which Harry and Sean turned to each other, bewildered, wondering how this was going to get them off the hook.
"Well if he didn't write the play, then, who did?"
"Ian McKellen," the young Lord said simply, and both Harry and Sean let out small gasps. They knew the "Phantom" existed, of course, and there were the notes, but they had never guessed that the man who was once a great actor on St. James' stage, then forced into recluse after the death of his lover, would write a play. Lord Queensberry, on the other hand, knew of this Ian McKellen, and had been trained to hate him—but he did not know of his whereabouts.
"Tell me more, boy."
"Well it's quite simple father, really," the young man explained, smiling as he moved smoothly into his element. "Poor Oscar was in the theatre one night, rather upset over something or another, what isn't important, but while he was here he was approached by a man."
"By Ian McKellen?"
"Precisely. Sir Ian McKellen, in fact, if you'll recall the cretin was actually knighted in the fifties, when he was so popular an actor… in any event, this devil approached Oscar Wilde, and he blackmailed him. He told him that this play must be staged, and passed off as his own work, or Ian would do horrible things. And Oscar believed him, of course, for Ian is none other than the so called 'Phantom' of St. James, the one who caused the stir the other night with the kidnapping of the young actor Mr. Wood, and all sorts of other mischief I'm sure," Lord Alfred explained, turning to the managers for confirmation.
"Oh yes, I'm sure…" Harry murmured, starting to catch onto how this young man was going to save all their hides and seeing hope in his plan.
"So then, these men aren't responsible for the staging of the play?" Lord Queensberry asked, looking quite suspicious.
"Oh, no!" Lord Alfred replied, deviously moving into the height of his dramatis persona. "They were threatened, you see sir. Indirectly, by the Phantom!"
"Ah…" the older man said, slowly, beginning to absorb his son's story. It might be noted here that the old Lord Queensberry was not a complete idiot, but rather, like so many, was simply blinded by love. For Lord Queensberry had been carrying on a secret affair with Mrs. John Wood for years, and in his passion for the famous lady of the theatre, he had been taught to detest Sir Ian McKellen, that nuisance whose male lover had been conveniently dealt with in the renovation but whose own existence was most troublesome to the woman. Still, he detested Sir Ian like one might detest the ghost of an enemy, for no one knew for certain where he was or if he were even alive. Now there was proof—not only was he alive, but living in this very theatre, and now Lord Queensberry had a chance not only to direct his hatred towards some tangible individual, but to prove his love for Mrs. Wood once and for all and perhaps convince her to leave that dreadfully plain husband of hers. "Do you know where this Sir Ian is, then?" he asked impatiently, turning his attention now to the two managers.
"Regrettably, sir, no," Sean replied. "No one does. Except… well begging your pardon sir, for I'm not certain, but I suspect Viggo does."
"Viggo? Who is Viggo?"
"Just the stagehand, sir. He's in charge of the crew, knows the theatre inside and out. He's worked here for years, since the sixties I believe."
"Excellent. And this Viggo—can his loyalty be bought?"
Sean shrugged. "Anyone can be bought, I suppose. For the right price."
Lord Queensberry smiled, a nasty smile echoed by his son behind him, the hurtful young man who had just exonerated his lover at the cost of another's life.
"Take me to him."
Billy was a very persistent man, when he wanted to be, and for all that he was soft-spoken, he could also be quite demanding, as Ian found when the young man insisted on staying the night, pouring them each a brandy and curling up by the little stove in their underthings.
Ian laughed and said that Billy was horribly improper, and that he enjoyed it vastly. It had been many, many years since he'd known the company of another man, particularly so intimately, and he found himself fascinated with Billy's skin, with the reactions he could glean from the young man by simply touching and stroking.
When it came time to make love, however, Ian was nervous, a little unsure, not very confident. It had been so many years, and he had been much younger man then, strikingly handsome. But Billy pressed a kiss to his throat and promised that Ian was still handsome now, and infinitely more so for his courage and his compassion and his presence. And so, amidst such flattery, Ian allowed Billy to lay him back against the sheets, rid him of the rest of his clothing, and kiss nearly every part of his body until he was relaxed and able to let go of such foibles.
They made love slowly, and it was more pleasing to Billy than he had even expected, for the old man had stamina, and he was infinitely gentle, and he kissed Billy's jaw and behind his ear and twisted his nipples and trailed his fingers over Billy's hipbones until he had no choice but to ride the pleasure to its natural conclusion, calling his lover's name and then riding the man wantonly until he followed Billy over the edge.
When they had satisfied their lust for the time being, then, the new lovers curled around each other in the big old bed, pulling the blankets up close, and drifted off into a dreamless sleep, both content to just be for a little while.
The next afternoon…
"Everything's set, then?" Mrs. Wood was nervous, very nervous. She didn't much like being seen in public with Lord Queensberry, for as much as she wanted to end up on his will when the old man died in a few years, she didn't want to be written out of her husband's. It was a thin tightrope to walk, but she was adamant enough about taking care of this damned Sir Ian, once and for all, and ensuring the success of her son's career over that of this little unknown trollop William Boyd (who had to be involved somehow, she was sure of it) that she'd agreed to come to the theatre today to meet with Viggo and make the final arrangements.
Lord Queensberry had paid Viggo handsomely the previous evening, and the arrangements had been set for today. Billy had not left the theatre since the performance, and so the two would have to be together, but that was okay. This time, two birds would go down with one stone, and Mrs. Wood could just forget the whole mess, once and for all. The plan was simple—Viggo would coax Ian and Billy out into the orchestra seating before tonight's show, say he had something special to show them, and then cut the rigging that held the beautiful and elaborate chandelier overhead. It was dramatic, yes, but Viggo had ensured Lord Queensberry that it was the easiest way of killing the two men and making it look like an accident. Afterwards, he could simply testify that the wiring was nearly thirty years old, after all, and must have come loose.
And so, here the two lovers sat, waiting for Viggo to come out and show them the last-minute details before it happened. He had given Lord Queensberry the seat number from which it would be easiest to see what Viggo wanted to point out, and so they sat in the very centre of the theatre, waiting restlessly for the stagehand.
"You're sure he said two 'o clock, dear?"
"Quite sure," Lord Queensberry agreed, checking his pocket watch impatiently. "It will happen at three, which will give them four hours to clean up before tonight's show. I just wish I knew where the bastard was…"
And high above the orchestra section, high above the entire theatre, next to a small, unseen door near the ceiling, Viggo had to clap his hand over his mouth to control a snicker. For he had grown up in the theatre, and even a stagehand could have a sense of irony. He waited, just the hint of a slightly mad gleam in his eye, until the man leaned down, eyes darting around nervously, to kiss his lover. And then he pulled out the wire cutters.
"Dear, do you hear that creaking noise?" Mrs. Wood asked, nervously pulling out of the kiss. And that was all the time they had to stand with alarm, trying to get away from the dangerously swinging fixture over their heads, for it was too late. The rows of chairs slowed their escape, and when the last wire was cut, the chandelier came down with a magnificent crash, a thousand tiny glass pieces breaking simultaneously. Far above the theatre, Viggo smiled slightly to himself, brushed his hands on his trousers, and left the scene of the crime.
In the end, the only parties really upset about the deaths were the children. But the young Lord Alfred was only marginally bothered by the death of his father, for he now had a splendid inheritance to comfort him and his lover Oscar to share in it. And Elijah Wood, who after the death of his mother had no real incentive to act, was taken in by a wealthy young man who specialized in beautiful boys who needed to be comforted, and he and Orlando lived fairly happily ever after, all things considered.
And, once the theatre was cleaned up and the death was judged accidental, Sean and Harry adopted a "show must go on" attitude, casting William Boyd permanently in the role of Jack Worthing. Now that the two managers had freer reign with the theatre, they began to operate it much more fairly, with Sir Ian McKellen's advice, and he was paid as a consultant, free to inhabit his rooms for as long as he liked with the young star, no questions asked. Of course, once the story became common knowledge, and then moved into the realm of legend, there were those who wondered why the two managers were so tolerant of the scandalous same-sex love affair being conducted under their roof. But, rumour has it, Sean and Harry were too busy with their own "friendship" to think much of scandal, and so Billy and Ian were never bothered.
And, on closing night, as Billy gave the best performance of his career to a full house and rave reviews, the only applause he cared about was that of the man who watched, high up in the wings, this time not bothering to duck back into the shadows as Billy looked up and blew a kiss. The Phantom of St. James had found his shining star.
Author: Viktoria Angelique (
v_angelique)Pairing: It's a surprise. Okay I know that's mean, but it kind of has to be for this. Billy is a really main character, though! It's Billy/somebody, I'll say that at least.
Rating: R
Length: Fic
Disclaimer: True? No.
Summary: This is a crosspost of something I wrote for my "slashy advent calendar" gift series, but since it's a "real" full-length fic I wanted to put it here as well. This is essentially a combination of the Phantom of the Opera (at least how *I* think it should've turned out) and the actual history of the St. James Theatre, where The Importance of Being Earnest was shown in 1895. Since coming up with the story and writing part of it, I saw Wilde, but that's not where any of this comes from. Some people (George Alexander, Mrs. John Wood, Lord Alfred, Lord Queensberry) are real people, and some of the history (the renovation, for example) is real. The rest is fiction. If you really want to know what's what, well, you can ask!
The theatre was completely empty when Billy showed up on King Street, earlier than the rest of the cast or even the stage manager. They would continue rehearsals this week for Oscar Wilde’s new play, The Importance of Being Earnest, and as was his ritual, Billy was the first one there, sprawling out on the stage dead centre, his limbs askew as he took a deep breath to centre himself.
Feel the stage, he had learned from his years of experience in acting. Be a part of the theatre, and the theatre will give back to you ten times over. He knew it sounded a little silly, but Billy firmly believed in the theatre and its power to make or break an actor. He didn’t take much stock in spirits, or the mysterious “Phantom of St. James” that some of the younger actors would allude to in whispers. They said that a mysterious man lurked in the shadows, whispering secrets to help or harm the actors as he saw fit. But to Billy, the only one who could make or break his performance was himself.
As he sat up, finally, shaking out his muscles and digging the script from his discarded shoulder bag, he looked up and waved to Viggo, the stagehand, and the only other person in the building. Some thought Viggo was a little crazy, but Billy liked him. Viggo understood the theatre, and if he could be a little grouchy sometimes, it was usually because his latest victim desperately deserved it.
In the shadows, a man watched as the single figure stretched and breathed, filling the stage with his presence. For the first time in years, this man smiled, and ducked away into the wings before anyone else arrived.
First to arrive that morning was Mrs. Wood, unsurprisingly, with the young Elijah in tow. Mrs. John Wood, as she was known in the theatre, had been St. James’ owner from 1869 to 1876, and in charge of one of its grandest redecorations. She was also the leading lady at the time, and was now making an effort to pass that role on to her only son.
Billy felt sorry for Elijah, he really did. As he led his mother down the aisle by the arm, the young man looked quite bored, and Billy imagined he had little choice but to enter the acting profession. The boy really was a bit of a priss, but that couldn’t be his fault, as his mum blatantly encouraged such behaviour.
Next to enter was a trio of well-dressed men. Billy recognized Harry Sinclair and Sean Bean, the new theatre managers to owner George Alexander. They, of course, played out of Mrs. Wood’s hand as much as anyone at this theatre, and were largely responsible for Elijah’s casting. The third man was slightly younger and had almost a foppish look, if it weren’t for the obvious expense of his tailored suit and white gloves, hair tied back with a ribbon. Orlando Bloom was a well-known patron of the arts, having recently come into quite a bit of money and now courted heavily by the other two men for his ready supply of cash donations. Furthermore, he had taken a liking to Billy in the last Wilde production, Lady Windamere’s Fan, and had been making as much of an attempt at courtship as any man could to another man in 1895.
Billy allowed Orlando a small smile, nodding politely at the other men, and cleared the stage, content to sit back and watch as people began filing in and bustling around, preparing for first rehearsal. Billy overheard Mrs. Wood giving Elijah “tips” and tried not to laugh out loud. Elijah would be playing Jack Worthing, also known as Ernest, and therefore had the challenge of playing a double role. Mrs. Wood’s advice mainly consisted of “large facial expressions,” something for which she was comically known in her own acting days. Billy, who was playing Lane, a manservant who appeared only in the first act, felt rather sorry for Elijah in this moment.
As the rehearsals began to kick into gear, Billy did as he was told, delivering his lines perfectly, few though they were. Truthfully, however, he didn’t really care. This was a far cry from the farm in Scotland where he had grown up. The theatre, for better or worse, was Billy’s home. And no one, not doting stage mums nor eager-to-please managers, could take that away from him.
“Um, hello William. May I have a moment?”
Billy looked up in surprise and found Orlando Bloom loitering in the doorway of the common dressing room. The production wasn’t large in terms of cast, so only a few actors used the room, and Billy was the only one at the moment, loitering for a while after the first rehearsal.
He certainly wouldn’t tell Orlando this, but there was a reason he had been lurking more and more after hours lately at the St. James. While his role as the manservant required very little of his skill as an actor, he also had to memorize Jack’s lines for his duty as an understudy, and as he had recited them alone in the wings or in this room, he had sometimes heard whispers from the shadows, guiding him. Anyone would think he was crazy, but Billy just figured it was the theatre, paying him back for his respect for its grandeur all these years. He had been hoping for these voices to visit him again tonight, but he wasn’t disappointed to see Orlando, clasping his gloved hands in front of his body with a shy smile and hopeful chocolate eyes.
“Of course, sir. Please, come in.”
“Oh, um, thank you. Please William, call me Orlando. I’ve been watching you act since Windamere; it feels strange hearing such a title from your lips.”
Billy smiled kindly and gestured for Orlando to sit, nodding at his request. “Then, Orlando, I would entreat you as well to drop formality and call me Billy. What can I do for you this evening?”
“Oh, thank you Billy,” Orlando replied with a smile broader than a small kindness in the matter of names would suggest. “I’ve come tonight, actually, to ask you a question. I was wondering,” he explained as he sat down, pulling the chair indicated closer to Billy’s own. “Might you do me the honour of joining me for dinner tomorrow evening? I have several rooms in a neighbourhood not far from the theatre, and I would most enjoy your company,” he finished, his eyes pleading and his expression so shy and desperate that Billy would hardly believe that this was indeed a wealthy nobleman if he hadn’t known his name for quite some time.
“Thank you, Orlando. That would be lovely. When would you like me to arrive?”
Orlando grinned widely, taking Billy’s hands in his own in an unexpectedly passionate display of enthusiasm. “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve accepted, Billy! Please, come directly after rehearsal. I’ll have the cook prepare something special for just us two.”
Billy almost thought he heard a groan from behind him, but chalked it up to imagination and simply smiled at Orlando. “I’ll be there, Orlando, certainly. Thank you for the invitation.”
As Orlando vanished from the room in a clumsy flurry of movement that made Billy smile and shake his head, Billy slid his chair back from the countertop, clasping his hands in his lap. The door shut behind the young theatre patron and he was again alone, whispering snippets of lines to himself and half-listening for anything unusual.
Waiting for a date with the voices in your head, he chided himself in a condescending mental tone, barking out a wry laugh. Determined not to be ridiculous, he gathered his things and instead exited through a door leading towards the stage, placing his hat on his head and standing briefly in the wings. From here he watched Viggo’s crew sweeping the stage and clearing away props for the next rehearsal, the eccentric older man waving a hand to him with a grin before he went back to yelling at his staff, and then headed out of the theatre with a soft smile. As he walked down the cobblestone street, the gas lamps just illuminating his path, he had the distinct feeling of being watched. He looked up quickly, but a flurry of movement in the upper windows of the theatre was followed by utter stillness. Billy was losing his mind.
Early the next evening, before rehearsal and even before Billy went up to the stage, he sat in the common dressing room, collecting his thoughts. It had been a long day and he needed a moment alone—however, that is far from what he got.
"Don't move," a voice commanded him, just over his shoulder. He whipped around quickly, giving the drawn curtains that formed a makeshift partition a suspicious look. "Don't try to see me," the voice added, and he shivered. It wasn't a threatening tone, however. It was just a voice. And it was a voice he knew well, though he had never heard it so clear and resolute—so much for the "voices of the theatre" theory.
"What do you want?" he asked, uncertain, standing from his chair and backing slowly away from the curtains and from the disembodied voice, not the theatre itself, Billy was certain, but an actual man.
There was a laugh, low and rumbling. Billy found himself drawn to the sound. "Nothing sinister, my dear boy. I want to tutor you."
"You want to… what?" Billy furrowed his brow, not understanding.
"I have been in this theatre many years. I have lived in this theatre many years. I was an actor too, once. I have been content to whisper to you, to offer simple advice with your lines thus far, but I want to give you more. I see something in you… more than any actor here you respect the theatre, and I am the theatre."
"You… you're the Phantom!" Billy exclaimed, though his tone held more awe and respect than fear.
"Not so loud," the voice warned. "We haven't much time. Can you return tonight? At midnight, here."
"I can… I can try, but the theatre will be locked…"
"Never mind that. The west entrance, you will be able to open it. Will you be here?"
"I… meaning no disrespect, Sir," he began carefully, feeling a little silly addressing the voice as 'Sir,' not even knowing to whom he was speaking, "but I'm only a small part. Not worth your time, really. If you're wanting to coach someone, I think Elijah might be able to use it a bit more," he admitted, and the voice laughed again, evidently catching the double meaning.
"Yes, he might, but I have no desire to offer the young Mr. Wood my coaching. You are the understudy for Jack, are you not?" Billy nodded, and then realizing that the voice could not see him, affirmed vocally. "Good. Tonight."
And with a slight rustle to the heavy blue curtains, Billy was alone.
The rehearsal that night was tense, and by the time Billy returned to the dressing room, he had almost forgotten about his dinner date. In fact, all his focus had been turned on the earlier meeting, on the mysterious man behind the curtain—the Phantom, Billy was almost certain. Others would say that he wasn't a man at all, but a spirit or a ghost, and indeed the voice had said that he was the theatre. But Billy caught a different meaning in the words. He heard something human in the voice, some emotion, a hint of pain and betrayal. "I was an actor too, once," the voice had said. No, Billy was certain, much more than he had been through the past months as he listened to these whispers from the shadows. It was not a ghost or a spirit who had been leading him, but a man.
This was the direction in which his thoughts tended as he prepared to leave, and he would've forgotten his dinner plans entirely if it wasn't for the whispers, the young female actors telling of Billy's acquaintance with the wealthy patron Orlando. They were jealous, and they did not look upon him kindly, but Billy didn't much care. He was too old for such gossip. Rubbing at his eyes wearily, Billy dressed quickly for dinner and left the theatre, not seeing the clear blue eyes that looked down at his tired form in sympathy as he headed out into the street.
When he reached Orlando's house, the butler let him in immediately, taking his coat and then leading him to the lavishly appointed sitting room before pouring wine into an honest-to-God crystal goblet and going off to inform the "master" of his presence. Billy felt very ill-at-ease, nothing like he did in the theatre despite its own ornate appointments, and the smile he offered Orlando when the young man entered the room was a shaky one.
"Billy! I'm so glad you came," he effused, smile wide, crossing the room immediately to join Billy on the antique sofa and clasp both hands in his once Billy had set his wine down. The butler poured a glass for Orlando and then left the room, and Billy almost wished he would stick around.
"It's my pleasure," he answered formally, sitting very straight as he watched the excitable young man launch into chatter about the theatre and society and politics, barely letting Billy get a word in edgewise. Still, Billy was content to smile and nod, for his thoughts focused not on Orlando but rather on the play and the strange man who whispered from the shadows of the theatre and had promised him a mysterious lesson.
Dinner itself passed similarly, and by the time they were in the sitting room again, enjoying an after-dinner coffee, it was after eleven o clock.
"You have beautiful eyes, Billy," Orlando said bluntly, his hand coming up to touch Billy's cheek. The older man blushed, and turned said eyes downward, and his young suitor smiled. "I mean it."
"Thank you," Billy replied simply, and he felt his chin being tipped up, and soft lips pressed to his own. He wasn't surprised, per se, but the butler and the maid were lurking somewhere, and Billy couldn't relax his body completely. "We shouldn't…" he began when Orlando finally pulled away, but the young man just smiled.
"It's fine. Robert and Nora won't say anything, if that's what you're concerned about. They're very discrete."
"No, it's just…" Billy sighed, and smiled at Orlando, for the man really was sweet and incredibly attractive, despite his tiresome enthusiasm. "I have somewhere I need to be," he admitted, regretting the words at Orlando's expression. "I'm sorry, it's just… business. I have to attend to."
"So late?" Orlando asked, his eyes suspicious.
"I'm afraid so. It isn't you," he assured the man, placing a hand on his knee. "I've enjoyed myself, Orlando. I just can't stay."
Orlando bit his lower lip, but nodded, seeming to accept the excuse. "You'll come again?"
"Of course," Billy replied warmly, and Orlando smiled.
"Are you going to stay there the whole time?" Billy asked later that night as he looked up into the rafters above the stage, his voice a little weak. "I mean, why can't you come down and let me see you? I won't tell anyone who you are…"
The voice in the rafters laughed, and Billy frowned. "You musn't see me, lad. I am dangerous to you, to anyone. I would only harm you, and I have no desire to do that. There are those I would choose to harm," he admitted, and a cold chill ran through Billy's body at the sincerity of those words, "but you are not one of them. Far from it," he added, as an almost inaudible afterthought.
Billy cocked his head to the side, and nodded. "Okay. What do you have to teach me, then? I'm eager to learn."
There was another laugh, a rich sound towards which Billy felt oddly possessive. "You have to be unafraid, lad. Don't be afraid to make your audience nervous—because you will. You're a brilliant actor, and the way you say my words will make them a little uncomfortable. As it should."
"Your words?" Billy asked, frowning. So the Phantom was appropriating Wilde's play now?
"Yes, William. My words."
"I don't understand."
"Well I will tell you, then, because it may make you more inclined to trust my coaching. You see, Oscar Wilde did not write this play at all."
"He didn't?" Billy sat down on the stage, legs crossed in front of him, looking suspiciously up in the direction of the voice.
"I'm afraid not. Not that he would be incapable of such a work, and in fact I drew much of the inspiration from him, but no, my dear boy, Oscar did not write the play. I wrote the play in the seventies, by which point my reputation as a theatre spirit had not yet been secured, but I had still been living here for several years. I found Oscar here once, late at night, mourning the loss of a lover who had moved on to marriage and children. I felt sorry for him, and so I passed on my manuscript. I offered it to him as his own."
"But… why don't you come out of hiding, then?" Billy asked, furrowing his brow. "Why don't you direct the play?"
The voice laughed and Billy could imagine the Phantom shaking his head. "Too dangerous, and too late, I'm afraid. But it's no time for stories, my dear boy. We have work to do."
And work they did, well into the night and for several nights after that, which turned into several weeks. The closer they came to opening night, the more Billy wanted to know of this man, this "ghost" who lurked in the wings and the rafters but always refused to show his face. He thought perhaps the man was disfigured, and once mentioned it, offering to let him come out, promising not to react badly, that he didn't care about looks, that he wanted to see his tutor. But the Phantom had just laughed, and refused. Billy sighed and didn't ask again, but he began to feel strongly towards this tragic figure—for though he did not know the Phantom's story, he was sure that it was tragic. And more than that, he felt companionship, felt that the man understood. He was as much a part of the theatre as Billy was, if not more. He understood Billy's need to be here, the need to call St. James home. Billy had found a kindred spirit, and at times in their rehearsing, a little chuckle or a certain remark would clue Billy in to the Phantom's personality—he imagined a slightly wicked man, a naughty man, an amusing man and above all a passionate man. He wished he could meet the Phantom in person.
At the same time; however, Billy was seeing Orlando, for he had no real reason not to, and the man was attractive and available and quite enamoured of him. They kissed, several more times, after dinners in Orlando's rooms, but always Billy had to leave before midnight. Orlando began to suspect that Billy was in some sort of trouble, offered him money if Billy needed it, but always he politely refused with a smile and a shake of the head. He wasn't in trouble, he insisted. He just had an appointment to keep.
A few days before the opening, the Phantom made a request. Orlando had just come to see Billy again in the dressing room, once it had finally cleared of all the bustle of a dress rehearsal, and as soon as he left, Billy felt a rustling in the curtain. He turned, and sure enough, there was the phantom's voice.
"William."
"Yes?" he whispered, scooting his chair closer.
"That fellow, Orlando. I'd like you not to see him anymore."
Billy frowned, caught off guard. "What? Why?"
"He isn't right for you. He's a nice boy, but… rather vapid."
Billy sighed, though he'd occasionally had the same thought himself. Still, he was an independent man. "What right do you have to choose whom I see or don't see?"
There was a long pause, and Billy almost thought the Phantom had left.
"I have no such right. But I would like you not to see him."
Billy was a little surprised, but not really, when he claimed to be ill the next time Orlando asked him to dinner. He could picture the Phantom, lurking in the wings looking smug. The thought unsettled him.
The first letter showed up two days before the opening. Viggo, blending into the background as he did so well, heard Sean as he read it aloud to Harry and then passed the information on to Billy.
"Dear Sirs," the letter read. "It is my sincere hope that you will heed this warning. Mister William Boyd will be opening in the part of Jack Worthing, while Mister Elijah Wood will play the part of Lane in the upcoming production. If you do not follow these instructions, you can be certain that things will not go according to plan. Sincerely, the Phantom of St. James."
"It's a lark!" Harry exclaimed, shaking his head. "A ruse! What could he do, anyway? He's a bloody ghost!"
"He's not a ghost," Sean argued. "He's a man. But a man can be locked up, and if he thinks he can lurk around this theatre without paying any rent, and then expect to order us around regarding the casting of our plays, he's got another thing coming. I'll speak to Mrs. Wood."
Mrs. Wood, of course, was livid, but she was even more livid when, an hour before curtain on opening night, her son suddenly disappeared.
Everyone scoured the theatre, but the boy could not be found. Some blamed Billy, but there was nothing for it. He would have to play Jack. From the wings, Viggo winked at him, and Billy was almost unsurprised.
Opening night went off without a hitch. Billy delivered his lines as the Phantom had instructed—subtly, capturing the irony of the double role in a way that made the audience guffaw with laughter. And, he had to admit, the lines the Phantom had written were brilliant. Just enough of a hint at the hypocrisy of society without outright saying it, the kind of play that would make people laugh and make fun of a class of which they did not realize they were a part.
Billy soaked in the applause at curtain call with a beaming grin on his face, able for just a moment to pretend that he was the star they had come to see, not just the understudy. As he stood front and centre, his eyes flicked briefly up to the rafters, and his smile widened when he saw a quick flurry of movement there—his tutor had been watching.
After the night's festivities were over, of course, it was a different story. Mrs. Wood was in a panic until, just as everyone was leaving the theatre, Elijah emerged as if in a daze, weeping in his mother's arms as the managers and other theatre staff surrounded the pair and doted on the poor boy. Billy had to hold himself back from snorting, but he remained nearby, wanting to hear the story. Elijah, apparently, had been captured by the Phantom of St. James himself—at least that was what he thought, for he never actually saw the man himself. He had been caught in some sort of a trap, hands tied and blindfolded before he knew what was going on, and dragged away to a set of rooms deep in the bowels of the building. He didn't know where they were, exactly, and he had been blindfolded when he left, so he couldn't show them back to his place of capture. Though he played the traumatized victim, Billy was able to glean from his dialogue that Elijah had not been hurt, and he was relieved. His Phantom, at least, was not a violent man, but simply purposeful. He only wished he knew what that purpose was.
"Billy!"
Orlando came running forward, not with a smile on his face but with a look of deep concern, just as Billy was about to leave the theatre. He frowned, but allowed Orlando to approach, his eyes darting briefly around the corridor to see if they were alone. Of course, he got this feeling that you could never be alone in this theatre, but that was preposterous. The Phantom was only a man. Billy didn't believe in ghosts.
"Thank God you're all right…"
"Orlando, what's the matter? I'm fine, it was Elijah who was captured…"
"No, no Billy, you don't understand. I've figured it out. Your role, the understudy… you said you'd had special instruction, yes?" he asked, out of breath. Billy nodded, his eyes narrowing. "Your tutor! It's the Phantom, isn't it?"
"Orlando, I…"
"No, Billy, listen to me. He's dangerous, whatever he is… you can't be hanging around him, or coming back to the theatre at night. He's harmed Elijah, he might harm you, and I couldn't live with myself…"
"Orlando, please. Slow down."
"It just all makes so much sense, you know. I don't see why I didn't see it before! The Phantom demands that you play the role of Jack, and then Elijah is mysteriously kidnapped just before the show, and then there you are, brilliant as ever, perfectly prepared… Billy, this can't end well."
"I don't see why not," Billy replied with a frown.
"He's dangerous! He could be all manner of things, Billy, from a ruffian to a killer. Do you know what they say about him? Some say he's a ghost, haunting the theatre to avenge his dead lover…"
"Orlando, that's balderdash and you know it. He's a man, same as any other man…"
"Have you seen him?" Orlando demanded.
"Well… no…"
"There! You can't prove that he's not a ghost, or something even more sinister. Billy, I know he's seductive, I know he probably has powers… I understand that, but you’ve got to listen to me. Come back to my rooms; I can keep you safe…"
"Orlando, I don't need protection, and I'm not being seduced. I'll be fine at home. He won't leave the theatre, anyway."
"I don't know…"
"I'll be fine. Please, Orlando. I'll see you at tomorrow night's showing." Billy leaned up to give the man a reassuring kiss on the cheek, and Orlando looked like he wanted to say more, but refrained, nodding and heading back the way in which he had come to allow Billy to leave through the side entrance, pulling his coat tight around his shoulders and looking carefully from side to side as he walked. He needed to get to the bottom of this, but first, he needed to sleep.
"But of course Elijah will be playing Jack tonight, Mrs. Wood. We've hired extra security, and he is under personal protection of the theatre. William will be playing Lane, and if there's any more funny business we will be sure that he is removed from the employ of the theatre…"
Billy shuddered from where he sat in costume, overhearing. Sure enough, two hired thugs sat on either side of Elijah with revolvers at their sides, ready to fend off any foul play that might occur. And Billy knew it wouldn't—the Phantom wasn't stupid, and unless he was some sort of hulking muscle man with a gun, he wasn't going to be able to break these defenses. Still, Billy was nervous.
The reviews from the previous evening had been wonderful, and another letter had arrived for Sean and Harry, warning them that further disaster might occur, were they to cast Elijah again. Hence the extra security, and yet, Billy was astute enough to note that the recipient of said disaster was not outlined in the letter. He delivered his few lines, therefore, with shaking hands, and as soon as the curtain was drawn, he hurried to find the stagehand.
"Viggo!"
"Whoa there, Billy, catch your breath, hang on a second, theatre isn't going to come crashing down in the next five minutes." Viggo stood on a platform above the wings, and Billy a few feet away from him, hands on his knees, panting hard. He had searched the theatre at a run, up and down, nearly knocking over a few actors and crew, and finally had been tipped off that Viggo was up here.
"You don't know that," Billy argued. "I want to ask you about the Phantom."
Viggo frowned.
"C'mon, Viggo, I know you know who he is! He's been helping me, but now I'm afraid he's going to hurt people, and…"
"Whoa there, Billy, slow down now. Do you really think Ian is going to hurt anyone? I mean, from what you know of him, of what he's done since you've been here, does he seem like the hurtful type?"
"Well, no, but… Ian? That's his name?"
Viggo nodded. "That's his name. The 'Phantom of St. James,'" he added with a wry little smile. "Come, Billy, sit down and I'll tell you what I can."
Nodding, Billy followed Viggo to a small room, more of a storage closet, but there were two chairs and he gratefully lowered himself into one.
"Now I don't normally say anything about Ian, to anyone. You understand?" His look was hard, and Billy nodded. "But I'll make an exception for you, because I think you care about him despite not having ever seen him, and I think he must care about you, given the circumstances."
"Okay."
"You see, Ian hasn't come out of hiding since the seventies, when he went into it. He was younger then, of course, a very attractive man, and might have been successful, but his fortune went bad. Near as I know, he was a fairly famous actor here at the theatre in the fifties, bit before my time. And he had a lover in the theatre too, name was Dominic."
Billy nodded, piecing together the information. He'd heard of an actor named Ian, once, a long time ago… McCullen, maybe? Something like that. But no one really talked about him, not like the big names of St. James history.
"Anyway, he didn't try to hide, you know, he or Dominic. They were together, and very in love, and everyone knew it. And as you can imagine, some people didn't like it. Mrs. Wood, particularly, didn't like it."
Billy nodded again, for it made sense. Tolerance towards men who preferred the same gender had never been very high, in his lifetime at least, and he knew how important discretion was. Everyone did.
"Anyway, he didn't much care, but then Mrs. Wood became the owner in sixty nine, and she cared quite a lot. So she had Dominic killed."
Billy gasped, and Viggo nodded sympathetically.
"Yeah. It was hard times. I knew about it, I mean I was always a theatre brat, working on the crew and such since we moved to England when I was twelve, and I was twenty-two when it happened. I was good at not being noticed, blending in, and hearing things. She set it up to look like an accident, during the big renovation, had a piece of wood fall down on his head, but it was all planned. Well I thought that was something awful, of course, and I told Ian about it. He was mighty depressed, and didn't much care about anything anymore. Certainly couldn’t get much of a role in Mrs. Wood's theatre, no matter how good he was, and so he sold everything he had in London and decided to stay here, where Dominic had died."
"Where does he live, then? I mean, does he ever leave?"
"No," Viggo replied, shaking his head. "I take care of him, you know, bring food and such. I helped him to find his rooms, because I knew every nook and cranny of this place, even back then. He lives underground, far underground, and it’s a maze down there. Impossible to find if you don't know what you're looking for, in the sub-basements. That's how I managed to hide Elijah the other night without anyone noticing."
"You hid Elijah?" Billy exclaimed.
Viggo allowed himself a small grin. "Yeah, well, Ian's not as young as he used to be. The little bugger's squirmy, but I could hold him down well enough. Didn't hurt him a lick, though, Ian made me promise that. Just scared the boy. His mother's the real problem, anyway."
Billy nodded in agreement. "So he just lives down there, then, underground."
"Yeah. A lot of it is kind of dank and dirty, but his rooms are nice, all furnished in the style that was popular then."
"And he's just been hanging around the theatre ever since he set up there?"
"Right. He doesn't come out much. He watches the plays, and sometimes he even gives the younger actors a little push in the right direction—the rumours you've heard, about whispers and such, that's him. That's what he did for you, too, but… well it's something more, now."
"He doesn't normally tutor people like he does for me?" Billy asked, a little surge of hope welling up in his chest.
"Never has. He trusts you, I think, maybe sees a little of himself in you. You were the actor he wrote the part of Jack for, I think, and so he's put himself at risk to make sure you get it."
Billy frowned. "I never meant…"
"I know you didn't. We never do. But I think it's good, you know. He's never cared for anyone really since Dominic died, never had any companions outside of myself. Maybe it's time old Ian found someone new."
Billy smiled, catching his meaning, and nodded. "I want you to take me to him, Viggo."
"Well now, I don't know about that…" Viggo argued. "I mean, he never told you you could see him. I don't think he wants to hurt you, and he might, you know. They don't like him much, and they don't know where he lives. If they caught him right out, or if they looked too hard… I just don't want trouble, Billy."
"It won't be trouble. I need to see him, all right? I need this, and you're a good man, Viggo. Please?"
Viggo hesitated a long beat. "All right. I'll take you to his rooms. But I can't guarantee he'll see you."
"That's all right. I can do the talking. Is he there now?"
"Should be, yeah." Viggo nodded. "He'll be in a right bad mood after tonight, though. C'mon."
And so they went down, to the stage level and below, and then below again through a twisting maze of corridors and stairways and doors and finally to a solid oak door that was unimportant looking and unremarkable. Billy never would've found it without help, and it made him feel marginally better about Ian's safety, as well as grateful to the stagehand for showing him the way. He stood back from the door, and Viggo knocked twice.
"I wish to be alone now, Viggo!" the familiar voice called from inside. Billy's breath caught in his throat.
"It's not me, Ian. It's Billy. He asked me about you and, well, I told him. He wants to see you." From inside, there was an unintelligible string of curses, and a bang, and then the voice was directly behind the door.
"William, you should go."
"No," Billy replied, gesturing to Viggo that he should go; Billy could find his way back. "Please, Ian. I want to see you. I want to… touch you," Billy admitted, without hesitation.
There was a long pause, and then Ian spoke again. "That cannot happen. I've done too much already, put you in too much danger. If we meet, we'll go past the point of no return, and I can't have that."
"Goddamnit, Ian," Billy sighed, leaning against the doorway and slumping down to sit on the cold stone floor. "What about what I want? I don't give a damn about danger. If I wanted easy and safe, I'd go with Orlando. But I didn't. He offered to let me spend the night with him last night, away from you, and I didn't. And I'm here now."
Behind the door, Ian sighed. "Dominic died, William. Dominic died, and I couldn't protect him. I can't protect you, and I won't have history repeat itself. Good night, William," he said simply, and Billy could hear footsteps leading away. He tried the door, and it was locked. Sighing in frustration, Billy turned away to find his way back. He wouldn't get to Ian tonight, but eventually, he would.
Three nights passed, and nothing dramatic happened. There were no more letters, no efforts to put Billy back in the lead. But more importantly—to Billy at least—there was no sign of Ian. There were no rustling curtains, no soft whispers from the shadows, no movement in the darkness. No feeling of being watched. Just, nothing.
He tried to return to the rooms below the theatre, but every time he headed that way, he realized that he was being watched. Viggo was like a hawk, impossible to trick, and always looking out for him. Acting under orders, Billy realized. But tonight, the theatre was especially busy. There were rumours—Lord Alfred Douglas's father was in the audience, the same Lord Alfred with whom Oscar Wilde had been seen about London. Presumably, the man was Wilde's lover, and Lord Queensberry, his father, would now see the play. The conservative man would doubtless hate it, and there were concerns about funding. To Billy, it was just another show, but in the second act, he found his opening. Extra anxiety meant that Viggo was extra busy, and Billy was able to slip off, undetected.
It took nearly twenty minutes to find, with several wrong turns, but he finally found himself in front of Ian's door. Reaching into his pocket, he found the small steel rod he had bought off an urchin who sometimes hung about his neighbourhood, and successfully jimmied the lock. What he found inside nearly broke his heart.
On a divan richly upholstered in vibrant burgundy velvet, swirling a glass of deep red wine, an old man sat, shoulders hunched, elbows on his knees. He might have been beautiful once, and still was, in Billy's opinion, seeing him for the first time in profile, but he was also deeply sad. Without hesitation, Billy walked over to the divan, ignoring the man's startled gasp, and sat next to him, one hand on Ian's knee to prevent escape.
"I won't let you run away from me," he said simply. "We've made it past the point of no return, it seems, so I guess we've just got to keep on going."
"William… you shouldn't be here," Ian protested, his voice soft and distinguished, the accent quite proper. It wasn't hard to imagine how that voice might have carried to the upper boxes in Ian's youth, captivating London audiences, or how he might have whispered to his flamboyant young lover and fellow thespian in deep, rolling tones. It was the same voice that Billy had been hearing from the shadows all this time, and almost strange to finally have a face and a body attached to it, to see the man to whom it belonged.
"Billy," he corrected automatically, squeezing the knee under his hand and lifting the other hand to the wrinkled, but still soft skin of Ian's face. "Call me Billy, please."
"I told you, Billy. This can only end badly."
"You told me," Billy agreed. "But I refuse to believe you. That one night was worth it for me, Ian. I'm no star of the stage like you, but you gave me that one night, and now I'm content to hide away forever if I have to."
"But you shouldn't hide," Ian objected. "You're young, you have a life ahead of you. I take back what I said before, you should see Orlando, and…"
"No," Billy interrupted. "I have no desire to see Orlando. He's a nice boy, but I would bore myself. He's young, and he doesn't know half of what you do. You know what it's like, you know what draws me to the theatre and why it's my home more than Scotland or my gran's farm can ever be. You know what it's like to lose yourself in the words of brilliant men long dead, and I think you know why I'm here tonight, why I don't give a shite about all the things that other people say are important. Please, Ian," Billy begged, stroking the man's hair. "I need to hear that you can learn to love me. If there's no possibility, I'll go, but I need to hear it from your lips."
Ian laughed, bitterly, and then looked Billy in the eye. "I can't say that, and you know it."
Billy grinned happily and leaned in. "I know," he whispered, just before pressing his lips to Ian's. He kissed the older man until he felt the resistance melt away, until Ian pulled Billy to lie atop him on the divan and snaked his arms around the younger man's waist. This was progress.
Meanwhile, backstage…
"Despicable! Absolutely despicable! You think I don't know what those foul words are hinting at? You think I don't hear the rumours that are circulating about my son…"
Lord Queensberry was, quite literally, red in the face, and Harry and Sean were in full placate-mode, trying to diffuse his threats and convince him to sit down and have a cup of tea.
"I will have this show cancelled, mark my words! Cancelled, I say, and your theatre bankrupt and this despicable playwright thrown in jail!"
As the two managers paled and tried desperately to get the venerable old man to retract his words, however, another young man was standing off to the side, his face twisting into an unreadable expression. Lord Alfred was getting an idea.
"Father, I have some information that might interest you," the fair-haired young man announced, stepping forward. The conversation stopped, and the older man raised an eyebrow at his son. "About the play."
"Yes, boy? Go on."
"Well you see, father, I agree with you of course," Lord Alfred began, the irony in his tone undetectable to a man who was accustomed to the utmost respect from everyone he knew. "The play is despicable, appalling really, but you see, it isn't Oscar who wrote it. And furthermore, it is not the fault of these men that it's being staged, at all."
There was a long pause, in which Lord Queensberry eyed his son with a look of confusion and curiosity, and in which Harry and Sean turned to each other, bewildered, wondering how this was going to get them off the hook.
"Well if he didn't write the play, then, who did?"
"Ian McKellen," the young Lord said simply, and both Harry and Sean let out small gasps. They knew the "Phantom" existed, of course, and there were the notes, but they had never guessed that the man who was once a great actor on St. James' stage, then forced into recluse after the death of his lover, would write a play. Lord Queensberry, on the other hand, knew of this Ian McKellen, and had been trained to hate him—but he did not know of his whereabouts.
"Tell me more, boy."
"Well it's quite simple father, really," the young man explained, smiling as he moved smoothly into his element. "Poor Oscar was in the theatre one night, rather upset over something or another, what isn't important, but while he was here he was approached by a man."
"By Ian McKellen?"
"Precisely. Sir Ian McKellen, in fact, if you'll recall the cretin was actually knighted in the fifties, when he was so popular an actor… in any event, this devil approached Oscar Wilde, and he blackmailed him. He told him that this play must be staged, and passed off as his own work, or Ian would do horrible things. And Oscar believed him, of course, for Ian is none other than the so called 'Phantom' of St. James, the one who caused the stir the other night with the kidnapping of the young actor Mr. Wood, and all sorts of other mischief I'm sure," Lord Alfred explained, turning to the managers for confirmation.
"Oh yes, I'm sure…" Harry murmured, starting to catch onto how this young man was going to save all their hides and seeing hope in his plan.
"So then, these men aren't responsible for the staging of the play?" Lord Queensberry asked, looking quite suspicious.
"Oh, no!" Lord Alfred replied, deviously moving into the height of his dramatis persona. "They were threatened, you see sir. Indirectly, by the Phantom!"
"Ah…" the older man said, slowly, beginning to absorb his son's story. It might be noted here that the old Lord Queensberry was not a complete idiot, but rather, like so many, was simply blinded by love. For Lord Queensberry had been carrying on a secret affair with Mrs. John Wood for years, and in his passion for the famous lady of the theatre, he had been taught to detest Sir Ian McKellen, that nuisance whose male lover had been conveniently dealt with in the renovation but whose own existence was most troublesome to the woman. Still, he detested Sir Ian like one might detest the ghost of an enemy, for no one knew for certain where he was or if he were even alive. Now there was proof—not only was he alive, but living in this very theatre, and now Lord Queensberry had a chance not only to direct his hatred towards some tangible individual, but to prove his love for Mrs. Wood once and for all and perhaps convince her to leave that dreadfully plain husband of hers. "Do you know where this Sir Ian is, then?" he asked impatiently, turning his attention now to the two managers.
"Regrettably, sir, no," Sean replied. "No one does. Except… well begging your pardon sir, for I'm not certain, but I suspect Viggo does."
"Viggo? Who is Viggo?"
"Just the stagehand, sir. He's in charge of the crew, knows the theatre inside and out. He's worked here for years, since the sixties I believe."
"Excellent. And this Viggo—can his loyalty be bought?"
Sean shrugged. "Anyone can be bought, I suppose. For the right price."
Lord Queensberry smiled, a nasty smile echoed by his son behind him, the hurtful young man who had just exonerated his lover at the cost of another's life.
"Take me to him."
Billy was a very persistent man, when he wanted to be, and for all that he was soft-spoken, he could also be quite demanding, as Ian found when the young man insisted on staying the night, pouring them each a brandy and curling up by the little stove in their underthings.
Ian laughed and said that Billy was horribly improper, and that he enjoyed it vastly. It had been many, many years since he'd known the company of another man, particularly so intimately, and he found himself fascinated with Billy's skin, with the reactions he could glean from the young man by simply touching and stroking.
When it came time to make love, however, Ian was nervous, a little unsure, not very confident. It had been so many years, and he had been much younger man then, strikingly handsome. But Billy pressed a kiss to his throat and promised that Ian was still handsome now, and infinitely more so for his courage and his compassion and his presence. And so, amidst such flattery, Ian allowed Billy to lay him back against the sheets, rid him of the rest of his clothing, and kiss nearly every part of his body until he was relaxed and able to let go of such foibles.
They made love slowly, and it was more pleasing to Billy than he had even expected, for the old man had stamina, and he was infinitely gentle, and he kissed Billy's jaw and behind his ear and twisted his nipples and trailed his fingers over Billy's hipbones until he had no choice but to ride the pleasure to its natural conclusion, calling his lover's name and then riding the man wantonly until he followed Billy over the edge.
When they had satisfied their lust for the time being, then, the new lovers curled around each other in the big old bed, pulling the blankets up close, and drifted off into a dreamless sleep, both content to just be for a little while.
The next afternoon…
"Everything's set, then?" Mrs. Wood was nervous, very nervous. She didn't much like being seen in public with Lord Queensberry, for as much as she wanted to end up on his will when the old man died in a few years, she didn't want to be written out of her husband's. It was a thin tightrope to walk, but she was adamant enough about taking care of this damned Sir Ian, once and for all, and ensuring the success of her son's career over that of this little unknown trollop William Boyd (who had to be involved somehow, she was sure of it) that she'd agreed to come to the theatre today to meet with Viggo and make the final arrangements.
Lord Queensberry had paid Viggo handsomely the previous evening, and the arrangements had been set for today. Billy had not left the theatre since the performance, and so the two would have to be together, but that was okay. This time, two birds would go down with one stone, and Mrs. Wood could just forget the whole mess, once and for all. The plan was simple—Viggo would coax Ian and Billy out into the orchestra seating before tonight's show, say he had something special to show them, and then cut the rigging that held the beautiful and elaborate chandelier overhead. It was dramatic, yes, but Viggo had ensured Lord Queensberry that it was the easiest way of killing the two men and making it look like an accident. Afterwards, he could simply testify that the wiring was nearly thirty years old, after all, and must have come loose.
And so, here the two lovers sat, waiting for Viggo to come out and show them the last-minute details before it happened. He had given Lord Queensberry the seat number from which it would be easiest to see what Viggo wanted to point out, and so they sat in the very centre of the theatre, waiting restlessly for the stagehand.
"You're sure he said two 'o clock, dear?"
"Quite sure," Lord Queensberry agreed, checking his pocket watch impatiently. "It will happen at three, which will give them four hours to clean up before tonight's show. I just wish I knew where the bastard was…"
And high above the orchestra section, high above the entire theatre, next to a small, unseen door near the ceiling, Viggo had to clap his hand over his mouth to control a snicker. For he had grown up in the theatre, and even a stagehand could have a sense of irony. He waited, just the hint of a slightly mad gleam in his eye, until the man leaned down, eyes darting around nervously, to kiss his lover. And then he pulled out the wire cutters.
"Dear, do you hear that creaking noise?" Mrs. Wood asked, nervously pulling out of the kiss. And that was all the time they had to stand with alarm, trying to get away from the dangerously swinging fixture over their heads, for it was too late. The rows of chairs slowed their escape, and when the last wire was cut, the chandelier came down with a magnificent crash, a thousand tiny glass pieces breaking simultaneously. Far above the theatre, Viggo smiled slightly to himself, brushed his hands on his trousers, and left the scene of the crime.
In the end, the only parties really upset about the deaths were the children. But the young Lord Alfred was only marginally bothered by the death of his father, for he now had a splendid inheritance to comfort him and his lover Oscar to share in it. And Elijah Wood, who after the death of his mother had no real incentive to act, was taken in by a wealthy young man who specialized in beautiful boys who needed to be comforted, and he and Orlando lived fairly happily ever after, all things considered.
And, once the theatre was cleaned up and the death was judged accidental, Sean and Harry adopted a "show must go on" attitude, casting William Boyd permanently in the role of Jack Worthing. Now that the two managers had freer reign with the theatre, they began to operate it much more fairly, with Sir Ian McKellen's advice, and he was paid as a consultant, free to inhabit his rooms for as long as he liked with the young star, no questions asked. Of course, once the story became common knowledge, and then moved into the realm of legend, there were those who wondered why the two managers were so tolerant of the scandalous same-sex love affair being conducted under their roof. But, rumour has it, Sean and Harry were too busy with their own "friendship" to think much of scandal, and so Billy and Ian were never bothered.
And, on closing night, as Billy gave the best performance of his career to a full house and rave reviews, the only applause he cared about was that of the man who watched, high up in the wings, this time not bothering to duck back into the shadows as Billy looked up and blew a kiss. The Phantom of St. James had found his shining star.
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