The Art of Manipulation || Phantom of the Opera & Loki the God of Mischief ||

-Whose Is The Face In The Mask?-

Lowering my hands as well, I answered simply, "Possibly."

"Fantastic." He muttered under his breath before sitting back down at his organ.

Our first meeting last night had gone pretty much the same. He had been angry and astounded at me discovering him. He had asked the same questions (minus the last one about my visits being a normal occurrence) and I had answered the same way, unable to tell him exactly how I was able to find him.

He had known precisely who I am, too. When I had asked if he wanted to know my name, he had interjected dryly, "Alouette de La Hye. Music director. Recently moved to Paris to work at the opera." His voice had dripped with sarcasm at the word 'opera', like it would be the greatest word to insult someone. "I'm guessing you're, what, twenty-three? Twenty-five? Not married. You have a great ear for music, I give you that much." The last part made me smile to myself now.

I leaned against the organ, earning a threatening sideways glance from it's protective guardian sitting at it. Raising my hands again I quickly took a step away from the large instrument, waiting for the man to return his gaze to the sheet music before relaxing again. Cautiously nearing the organ once more, I made a point not to touch it, keeping my hands to myself. Biting my lip, I broke the silence, "So, do I just keep calling you O.G. for the rest of our friendship?"

He halted his writing and looked at me like I had said something absurd, "'The rest of our friendship'?"

I looked to the sheet music and back to his irritated stare, "Well, yeah. I was hoping, now that we've found each other-"

"Do remember that it was you who found me. I never had the intention of being found, let alone by you."

Fiddling awkwardly with my fingers, I could feel the nervous sweat beginning to form, "But I did find you. There's nothing you can do about that now."

"Apparently." He twisted back to face the keys and resumed his writing.

"Since there is nothing we can do we might as well be friends."

"I don't have friends."

I looked around his desolate home and smiled briefly, "I gathered." I saw his eyes shift towards me momentarily, his lips turned down in an upside down U. Turning my attention back to him I quipped, "Can I guess your name?"

"No."

"Ramin?" I smiled at his exasperated groan. When he said nothing, I guessed again, "James?" Nothing. "Gerard?" Again, nothing. "Ben?" And again, nothing.

This went on for the next few weeks. I guessed and guessed, making notes on the names I had already used so I wouldn't reuse them. He grew more and more agitated but I went on ignoring it, thinking he may, eventually, warm up to me. He never did.

A month passed, and I had come down to The Masked Man's lair every night; guessing his name and talking to the thick wall that is his skull. On this night, I wandered around his lair, avoiding the places he had previously shouted at me for invading. Besides the mess of sheet music spread out over every available space, he had artwork; drawings and paintings of all kinds. I stared at them in awe, making sure I didn't touch any of them in fear of triggering The Man's short temper. Walking down the short set of steps, I passed little models of the theater, each of them made up to look like the different productions we had put on. Coming to another table I stopped, spotting a bust of the Eros, the Greek god of love, desire, and sexual attraction. The god sat proud on the table, modeling a mask that had obviously been made by the man playing the organ.