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Chapter Text

Autumn comes with regal ease, content to arrive with slow grace and the closing of summer. Foliage began to continue its sequence of seasons, changing into torched hues from bright green. Trees started to shed and the weather began to cool softly. The evenings were fresh and crisp. The fall conveyed a new series of fashion consisting of crimsons, beige, firewood brown and dull greens. A dawn of another harvest in Paris of 1919 gave perfect conditions for romantic and idealistic dates with your loved one. Strolling through the city to gaze upon the new greenery, enjoy coffee culture, or wander the city. Sublime and blissful.

A rustic, leather hooded car with dull headlights navigated through the city, steady and slow. It lightly convulsed against the cobblestone road. It made its way carefully to a towering, almost shabby, run down opera house. Ornate designs coated the walls, carved with intense detail. The windows were dusty from the inside, most did not even hold garnished glass. An opera house that was absent of music for years.

A lengthy tapestry hung between four marble pillars at the entrance of the establishment. In bold and eye-catching lettering, it read -

"Vente Publique Aux Encheres - Public Auction Today."

The coppery vehicle slowed to a halt with a sputter of the engine. Two women in pale nurse outfits with broad white hats exited the backseats together from one door. They wove around to the other side, and assisted a man on the other side. He was gently hauled onto a metal wheelchair, clicking as he seated against it. The man's hair was grayed out, and faint strands of faded blond were just barely visible. A deep blue coat shielded him from the chilly air, unbuttoned to show a white dress shirt. His legs were sheathed in gray pants and mahogany shoes.

A scar ran from the bridge of his nose and ended at his left cheek.

The nurses guided the man into the opera house, the wheelchair popping lightly beneath concrete. The entrance with two lanky wooden doors were already propped open. The three ventured inside without a word. Chalky curtains littered the halls. Dust and grime edged the corners and lined the wall trims. It seems some workers have lazily attempted to hide peeling wallpaper and torn palisade, smoldering at the nooks. As if they were torched and charred.

Forwarding deeper into the opera house, they came upon a vast and extensive room. Velvet seating laid out across the wooden plank flooring, men and women gathered in them neatly. At a podium in the front of the room, a dark-skinned man with a slim build was auctioning off contents of the opera house. Very short white hair with shaved lines forming two elongated hexagons of hair between his scalp and his temples, each joining the corresponding eyebrow with a zig-zagging strand of hair lay upon his skull. He wore a purple overcoat and a bleached ascot.

"...Sold. Your number, sir? Thank you." the man dipped his head quickly, nodding at a gentleman in the audience. "Lot 663 then, ladies and gentlemen; a poster for this house's production of 'Hannibal' by Chalumeau."

"Showing here." A man with dark-hair that styled into several dreadlocks next to the auctioneer held a lengthy poster bordered in gold. It depicted a well-built, almost feminine man posed in a hood of deep violet and shiny flaxen ornaments dotted it, along with armbands and rings that fit long, slim fingers. A few strands of purple hair escaped from the middle of his head-wrap and out onto his forehead. Ruby eyes gazed ahead, with blue eye shadow that dusted on his upper lids.

"Do I have ten francs?" The auctioneer queried, looking at the audience.

The man in the wheelchair gently tapped a nurse on her forearm once to his right. She raised her arm politely.

"Five then," the purple coated man rendered, "five I am bid." A few other people raised their hands as well, putting their bid for the elegant poster. "Six, seven. Against you, sir, seven." It ended with the old man taking the highest proposition.

"Eight. Eight once, selling twice," with no objections, the clerk slammed his gavel. "Sold to Robert, Vicomte de Speedwagon. Thank you sir."

The poster was carried gently over to the nurses that stood by his side, holding it with prudence. The auction carried on with the next set. Speedwagon was focused on the poster. His eyes began to glisten as a dim memory began to light its way back into his head.

The blow of the gavel brought him back to the current setting, forgetting the echo of the past.

"Fifteen, thank you sir, fifteen I am bid. Going at fifteen." The pale-haired man glanced over at the next item. "Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen; a paper-mache musical box, in the shape of an organ piano. Attached, two small human statues in ancient Roman clothing. Discovered in the vaults of the theatre, it is still in working order."

"Showing here," the man next to him announced again, holding the item. He set it in motion delicately. A sweet, lullaby tune unfolded from the gears inside. The two statues slowly rounded in a circular pattern together in unison.

A glimmer swirled in Speedwagon's eyes. The melody was very familiar to him, yet so very foreign.

"May I commence at twenty francs?" The auctioneer solicited. The nurse next to him rose her hand once more. "Fifteen then? Fifteen I am bid."

A woman with long, straight locks of smooth brown hair that reached mid-back rose a gloved hand. Small golden hoops locked at her earlobes matched a pale beige dress. Speedwagon and the woman offerings went on for a quick minute, eager to buy this model.

"...And thirty-five?" The dealer looked at the dark-haired woman, who met eyes with him before gently shaking her head. The auctioneer cleared his throat. "Sold for thirty francs then to the Vicomte Speedwagon. Thank you, sir." The gavel banged again.

The intertwining statues were handed to Speedwagon with care. His boney fingers held it, quivering lightly. The old man eyed it, studying the modeling. Up close, the figures were not plain and simple - great detail went into the anatomy and clothing. Especially one of the sculptures. It seemed confidentially familiar.

A collector's piece indeed, he thought to himself quietly, every detail exactly as he said. Speedwagon's blue eyes softened up as he inspected it even more. Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?

"Lot 666, then." The auctioneer called. "A chandelier in pieces."

Speedwagon blinked back to the present.

"Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera: a mystery never fully explained."

The woman across the room glanced at Speedwagon for a split second before turning her attention to the back of the abode as everyone else did. Bleach-white curtains were draped across a mystery item on the floor. It seemed massive, and the cloak made people curious of the contents beneath it.

"We are told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have restored it and fitted up parts of it with wiring for the new electric light, so that we may get a hint of what it may look like when re-assembled."

Tension filled the room. Everyone was eager at the reveal of this supposed chandelier that featured in the torching of the opera house years ago. The burning was intense, heavy and affecting many innocents that had sat in this very room. Caused by a supposed masked murderer, ravenous for bloodshed and revenge.

"Perhaps we can frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination." With a light joking smile, the marketer turned to the workers that approached the drapes against the chandelier.

"Gentlemen?"

A flash of bright light nearly blinded the audience as the curtains were swiftly tugged back. It was true - a bright, elegant chandelier came alive, the glass and crystals glittering and reflecting gasps from the crowd. It was obscenely ornate, dazzling its crystalline core against eyes that stared back. Dust fluttered up from below, swirling before dying down against the wooden floorboards. Its lights flickered before glowing, electricity flowing throughout the wires that were recently tucked inside it. It wobbled a bit before rising, the small glass and crystals sounding like chimes. Speedwagon and the woman stared in silence, their jaws nearly unhooked at the stunning vision. Starlight reflected in their pupils, as the recollection of the grim past emerged from the corners of their minds.

Chapter Text

A rehearsal of Hannibal by Chalumeau in Paris was held in 1887, starring the regal and opulent Kars.

Confined in a deep purple hood dotted with golden decor, a loincloth, armbands lined with gold, kneepads and firm boots. Bright glittery blue eyeshadow made his scarlet eyes pop, and sometimes the little lock of hair poking out from the head-wrap blocked it when he turned his head. Kars' singing was confident - fruity and modulated, yet uncomfortably penetrating. "Loud ringing" is what most of the maids would describe his voice, though many aristocrats quite enjoyed it. And knowing that only fed Kars' ego.

Without fail, the dark-haired man was sure to get the leading role in every opera he took part in. Ever so rarely did he not get star character. It wasn't difficult to convince a manager if he happened to not get the position.

The large stage crew was rather busy backstage - hammering, dusting, clashing and pounding as people hastily got their work done for props and costumes. Resizing and redoing, creating and destroying whatever they found unnecessary for the production. Men and women worked together, maybe even quarreled a bit, as they passed through mini workstations. Laughs and chatters were audible above operational movements. Aya Tsuji, the seamstress obsessed with Cinderella, stitched away at velvet clothing as Tonio Trussardi, the Italian chef, had volunteered to be her dress form. The well-known school delinquents, Josuke Higashikata and Okuyasu Nijimura, ran playfully past, throwing a used rag at the wanna-be cowboy Hol Horse who was attempting to flirt with other crew members before taking off furiously at the students. Jolyne Kujo and Hermes Costello, tight friends that just finished another prison sentence, halted their work to cackle loudly at the blond cowboy rushing to get his revenge as he passed by.

Risotto Nero, the scarily tall Italian with black sclera, greedily eyed the freckled Vinegar Doppio that was fairly new to the opera house, suspicious of the pink-haired boy. He was even more interested when Hol Horse accidentally bumped into the boy and was sent fuming. Mariah, the Egyptian cat lover, had to arrive at Hol Horse's aid when Doppio nearly went too far on teaching the cowboy a lesson. Bruno Bucciarati, a well respected individual amongst the crew, ordered them back to work kindly yet firmly. Leone Abbacchio at his side was sure to yell until he his throat went hoarse if anyone objected to Bucciarati.

Joseph the brunet troublemaker worked at the heavy ropes holding a bright backdrop with Caesar Zeppeli at his side, making sure the Englishman won't do anything stupid or get distracted. Rudol von Stroheim offered to help, but they simply told him to "piss off". Smokey Brown had to apologize for Joseph to the German before a fight broke out. Jotaro Kujo, another school delinquent, observed Noriaki Kakyoin who was teaching him how to beat dust and dirt out of washed clothing. Their fortune telling friend, Muhammad Avdol, draped cloth along the oak wood railing neatly for it to dry off. Steely Dan offered to help, but Jotaro glared the smug and confidential man away before Avdol could say anything.

The ballet group rushed down the stairs close by. A mix of men and women chatted and giggled to each other as they went into positions in the left wing to wait until it was their turn to take the spotlight.

Back onstage, Kars was accompanied by another man in shiny attire. Beneath a tall orange headpiece, Esidisi's light hair protruded in a bouffant tuft. A blue painted X shape spans his face against tan skin. Thick, golden earrings glittered against the light, as well as the ring on his nose. His top consisted of orange leather patches against his shoulders and chest, joined by navy straps that led to black pants with orange patches on his thighs.

"Sad to return to find the land we love threatened once more by Roma's far-reaching grasp!" Esidisi recited, motioning with a right hand that clenched into a fist. His voice was gravelly, yet still very operatic.

The conductor below, Rohan Kishibe, tapped his thin baton on his metal stand. He had an undercut that slicked sideways in locks of deep green and a white tailcoat with a violet ascot. "Signor Esidisi, if you please; 'Rome'. We say 'Rome' not 'Roma'."

Esidisi returned a sharp dip of his head, clearing his throat. "Si, si, Rome, not Roma. My accent makes this very hard for me..." Kars silently chuckled as his partner practiced the pronunciation.

Before they could continue, there was a sudden clapping of hands around backstage. The singers paused to look over as a man with golden locks that curled at the ends of his shoulders like rings walked out wearing a smooth white uniform, including an overcoat closed at the end of his torso. His hands were enclosed in gloves with a net-like pattern. Funny Valentine, as everyone nicknamed him, was the manager of the opera that was soon to be retired. Two other men followed close behind him.

Valentine called for a hiatus to the rehearsal, frustrating most of the crew yet gave the man their full attention.

"I would like to introduce the two men accompanying me today," he politely smiled against the annoyed glares of the production, "Some of you may have already met the new managers, but, this is Monsieur Jean Pierre Polnareff -" he lifted a hand toward the man on his left side, who wore a blue tailcoat with a silky cravat and tall silver hair that rose straight above his head, with no eyebrows to accompany sky blues eyes. He waved his hand slightly.

"...And Monsieur Joseph Joestar." The man on his right side wore a tan tailcoat with a black tie. His hair and beard were grayed, making soft greenish blue eyes glow against the silver hairs to match Polnareff. He bowed briefly.

The conductor across the stage nodded his head repeatedly, "Yes yes, I'm sorry, monsieur Valentine, but we are currently rehearsing. If you wouldn't mind waiting a moment?" He slightly raised an eyebrow, clearly annoyed and wanting to return to the theatrical work.

Valentine's eye twitched before bowing apologetically. "My apologies, monsieur Kishibe. Proceed, Proceed..."

"Thank you." With that, Rohan cleared his throat, looking back toward the center stage to Esidisi. "Resuming from 'sad to return', signor..."

A little embarrassed at the dismissal, Valentine swiftly turned to the two men at his side, who simply fidgeting awkwardly from the slight acknowledgement of their existence from everyone. Lowering his voice, he muttered, "That would be Rohan Kishibe, our chief repetiteur. Rather a tyrant, i'm afraid."

As the three moved across the stage to be introduced to different parts of the crew and watch the rehearsal, the performance resumed and the orchestra struck back up. Esidisi picked back up his lines, "Tonight, rejoice - your army has come home!" The ballet group filed out neatly from the wing of the stage, beginning their part at the conclusion of Esidisi's. They were graceful as the orchestra complimented every movement. Valentine, Polnareff, and Joseph stood nearly center stage, admiring the dancing, clearly in the way.

Valentine flicked a hand at Esidisi, "Signor Esidisi - our principal tenor. He does play so opposite Kars," he told the gentleman, guiding their eyes to the other side of the stage where the vibrant purple man was, hissing at his red haired seamster about the tightness of his armbands.

A violent tapping of a cane against the floorboards caught their attention, making the three look over to where a woman with long velvety brown hair tapped her cane at them. She had a white long-sleeved collared dress shirt, puffed at the shoulders, with a neat red bow to match a lengthy red skirt that barely revealed leather heeled boots. She was clearly upset at their presence for intruding the ballet, furrowing her brows.

"Gentlemen, please! If you would kindly move to one side?" She instructed firmly.

At her calling, Valentine took notice of their position onstage and quickly led Polnareff and Joseph aside by a quick pull of their arms. The blond man was an embarrassing mess. "My apologies, Madame Elizabeth," he shouted over the music.

He looked back at the silver haired men, "she is our ballet mistress." Briefly clearing his throat, he inhaled, "I don't mind confessing, Monsieur Joseph, I shan't be sorry to be rid of the whole blessed business."

"I keep asking you, monsieur," Joseph pondered, narrowing an eye, "why exactly are you retiring?"

Valentine ignored his question, drawing their attention back to the ballet performance. "We take a particular pride here in the excellence of our ballets. Madame Elizabeth is an quite a remarkable teacher."

A young lady, perhaps seventeen, became prominent among the dancers. The gold and crimson red of her ballet costume complimented her blonde hair well, soaking up the spotlight. Polnareff stared upon her, "who's that girl, Valentine?"

"Erina Pendleton," Valentine answered, not taking his eyes off her, "you could say she's Madame Elizabeth's favorite pupil. She is a very promising dancer, monsieur - very promising." They shared a slight grin.

Erina waltz to the side as her partner became prominent in turn. A man around the same age as her, with chocolate brown hair and dark eyes moved fluently through the shimmering of the costume. He absentmindedly fell out of step, whereas Erina tried to guide him back into place before Elizabeth could yell at him. Yet, the cane thundered again.

"Jonathan Joestar! Concentrate, boy!" Elizabeth called.

Jonathan flinched as he quickly readjusted himself among the other performers, returning close to Erina's side. The blonde girl leaned over to whisper, "Jonathan, what's the matter?"

Joseph remarked quietly to Valentine, "Joestar? What a unique name."

"English," Valentine nodded, "we have a few Joestars here."

"Could he perhaps be related to that famous English violinist, George Joestar?"

"His son, I believe. Always has his head in the clouds, i'm afraid."

The ballet group flocked back to the wings systematically as their part ended. The chorus resumed, and the opera house was again engulfed in singing. "Hark to their step on the ground - hear the drums! Hannibal comes!" Finishing on a hearty note and a quick fashionable pose, they concluded the rehearsal and began to wrap things up. Valentine clapped his hands a few times fore awareness to be brought back to him and his new managers. He still had one more urgent announcement. It took a moment for the production to quiet down, as there were still inaudible murmurs and hushed voices every now and then.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention now please?" Valentine folded his hands considerately. "As you know, for some weeks there have been rumors of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these were all true, and it is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the opera populaire - Monsieur Jean Pierre Polnareff and Monsieur Joseph Joestar." He nodded to the two men at his side, slightly raising his hands to set the people's views upon the silver haired men. A polite applause welcomed them.

Kars strutted his way over to greet them, his jewelry rustling against each other, resonating like wind chimes. Valentine introduced him respectfully.

"Gentlemen, Signor Kars, our leading soprano for five seasons now." Kars exchanged handshakes with the men, lightly smiling.

"Of course, of course," Polnareff smiled as he shook Kars' ringed hand, "I have experienced all your greatest roles, signor."

"Ah, who has not?" Kars drew his lips to a toothy grin, pleased of Polnareff's words. Perhaps he would get along with these new managers.

Valentine nodded to the other leading actor, "and Signor Esidisi." He came over as well for a formal introduction, his own jewelry emitting soft jingles.

Joseph bowed, "an honor, signor." They too exchanged handshakes.

Polnareff returned his attention back to Kars. "If I remember correctly, you have a fine aria in Act Three of Hannibal. I wonder, signor, if, as a personal favor, you would oblige us with a private rendition?" The man asked, slightly tilting his head. "Unless of course, Monsieur Kishibe rejects..." He glanced at the green haired conductor.

Kars hummed happily, approving of their attitude. Who wouldn't want a special performance from Kars himself? "If my manager commands." He turned to Rohan as well, who dipped his head.

"If my diva commands. Will two bars be a sufficient introduction?"

"Two bars will be quite sufficient."

Rohan took a moment to ready the orchestra, as papers rustled and instruments tuned to the solo. Picking back up the thin metal baton, he looked back up to Kars who readied with a vocal check. "Signor?"

"Maestro."

The introduction to the song in Act Three began with a soft piano. Kars raised his arms slightly, smiling as he soaked up the attention to sing for the new managers. He closed his eyes. "Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye..."

The managers looked at each other nervously, grinning through Kars' operatic ear piercing voice as Joseph inhaled and fluffed out his cheeks.

"When you find, that once again you long, to take your heart back and be free..."

Ropes unwind. Gears turned. Metal clamored as the tight ropes came undone and loose. The machinery spun as the big backdrop came tumbling down at a high speed from its holding. Screams and shrieks escaped from the lineups and staff, jumping out of the way to avoid being hit. The heavy backdrop rolled down and crashed onto Kars, who wailed out in shock.

"Oh my God! Signor!" Rohan gasped, dropped his baton whereas the orchestra halted in horror.

Esidisi wasted no time to rush to Kars' side to try to pull off the backdrop, muttering curses and hushed worry. Kars slammed the ground with balled fists, demanding for the backdrop to be lifted off him in distress. Esidisi was well built, so it didn't take long for the other to be freed from the beneath the backdrop. He helped Kars to his feet as the screaming died down into whispers.

"You idiots!" Esidisi glared at the upstage crew furiously, but looked back at Kars with a concerned look. "Are you hurt?"

"Signor!" Valentine gasped, embarrassed and maddened. "Are you alright? Joseph! Where is Joseph?"

The bearded manager looked at Valentine, "i'm here!"

"Not you!" The blond shook his head furiously. "The other Joseph. Get that man down here!"

"Is no one concerned for our prima donna?!" Esidisi narrowed his piercing blue eyes, checking Kars for wounds. The purple clothed man held a palm to his head, as if he had been knocked out. Upstage, the younger Joseph appeared from the darkness, hoisting the ropes back into place to pull up the backdrop quickly with a shocked expression.

"Joseph! For God's sake, man, what is going on up there?" Valentine glared his eyes at the young Englishman, biting back a storm of cusses.

"Please monsieur, don't look at me!" Joseph half yelled back, still focusing on putting the ropes into their proper hold. Caesar appeared by his side to help him, murmuring curses at his friend. "As God's my judge, I wasn't at my post!"

A sly grin spread across the brunet's face. "There was no one there. And if there was, well then, it must've been a ghost!" He cackled playfully, scaring the younger production. Caesar took notice of the haunted expressions down below, and jabbed Joseph against the back of his head, making him let out a "yow!"

Back downstage in the cluster of the ruby and gold ballet group, Erina took hold of Jonathan's hand worriedly. "A ghost. It must be the Phantom of the Opera..."

"Good heavens!" Polnareff sighed rather loudly, "Will you show a little courtesy?"

"Ladies and gentlemen, please!" The older Joseph tempted to calm everyone, who were obviously shocked and scared. "There is no ghost, I assure you!"

Polnareff turned back to Kars who glared back, still clutching his head dramatically through an irritated glare. Esidisi, holding him gently, glinted his eyes as well. "These things do happen," the Frenchman weakly guaranteed with a nervous smile.

Kars grew furious at his futile attempt to calm him down, peeling back his lip. "For the past three years, these things do happen! And until you stop these things from happening, this thing..." - he raised his arms in the air to address the performance - "does not happen!"

He violently turned on his heel, nearly smacking the managers with a swift moving arm, balling his fists as he pushed his way through the crowd. "Ubaldo! Andiamo!" The red haired seamster and a muddied blond along with a few others quicky followed him out. Esidisi fetched their furs from the wing of the stage. "Amateurs!" He remarked nastily at the managers as he passed, quickly catching up to Kars' side as they stormed out of the opera house.

Valentine huffed in surprise, lost for words and dumbfounded before slowly turning to Polnareff and Joseph. "I don't think there's much more to assist you, gentlemen. Good luck. If you need me, I shall be in America." The blond also turned and headed off the stage and toward the exit.

Everyone anxiously turned back to the new managers when Valentine's frame disappeared out the door, stunned at the withdrawal of Kars and Esidisi. Polnareff forced a smile through the tension of everyone's ogling.

"Kars will be back."

Heels clicked against tile over to the two gentlemen. "You think so, messieurs?" Elizabeth looked at them. "I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost."

She held out an envelope, sealed with a blood red skull stamp. The chorus and ballet group twittered nervously and gasped fearfully at the sight of it.

"God in Heaven, you're all obsessed!" The bearded manager exclaimed, bewildered at the woman's gesture. He didn't even take the note from Elizabeth's hand, scowling at their belief of some being haunting the opera house.

Elizabeth lightly smiled at his reaction. "He merely welcomes you to his opera house and commands you to continue to leave Box Five empty for his use, and reminds you that his salary is due." She pointed with her cane in her other hand up at the empty velvet seating that was just above the stage.

"His salary?!" Joseph gaped, grabbing the envelope instead and hastily opening it.

"Correct," the brunette nodded, "Monsieur Valentine paid him twenty thousand francs a month. Perhaps you can afford more, with the Vicomte Speedwagon as your patron."

Jonathan squeezed Erina's hand at the mention of the name. The blonde girl looked up at him, surprised at his reaction, perplexed. However, the other was simply staring and listening eagerly to the manager's conversation.

"Oh," Polnareff blinked at Elizabeth, "I had hoped to have made that announcement myself."

Elizabeth turned to Joseph, "will the vicomte be at the performance tonight, monsieur?"

"In our box."

The other silver haired man butted in, "Madame, who is the understudy for Kars' role?" he queried.

From the front, Rohan fumed, "There is no understudy! The production is new, monsieur!" he crossed his arms. "We will have to cancel, or perhaps change everything!"

"Jonathan Joestar could sing it, sir."

The managers and Rohan turned their heads back to the side, where Elizabeth guided a young man to the center stage, away from the ballet group. His attire glittered beneath the light, exposing olive skin and an anxious stare from brown eyes. Everyone's eyes landed on him, who nervously shuffled his feet.

"A chorus boy?" Joseph looked Jonathan up and down. "Don't be silly."

"He has been taking lessons from a great teacher," the woman poised with a smile, resting a hand on Jonathan's shoulder.

Polnareff and Joseph glanced at each other. "Whom?"

"I-I don't know his name, monsieur..." Jonathan informed uneasily, quietly tilting his head to the side timidly.

Joseph scowled, disregarding him and exclaimed to his partner, "A full house! We will have to refund a full house, Jean!"

Elizabeth's face scrunched for a second at their ignorance. "Let him sing for you, monsieur," she pressed, "he has been well taught." Jonathan anxiously looked at Elizabeth, who simply gave him a swift nod of encouragement.

After a long pause, Polnareff clapped his hands together. "Well, it certainly would not hurt to try!" The manager wanted to lift the tension and hopefully obtain a new leading actor to replace Kars. He led Jonathan to the front of the stage with a free palm against his back, placing him whereas Kars was previously singing.

Erina gazed at him from their group, a warm smile spreading across her face as she watched her friend take the spotlight.

"From the beginning of the aria, monsieur," Rohan instructed, adjusting himself back at his own spot, lifting his baton.

Jonathan glanced at Elizabeth, then back to meet eyes with Erina. The blonde girl faintly blushed, giving him a small thumbs up to cheer him on. The piano began its melody, and the opera house watched the brunet with expectation and curiosity. Their expectations were high, as Kars was a substantial and grand actor. For a chorus boy to suddenly take the spotlight was very surprising, worrying almost.

Returning his focus back to the front with all eyes on him, Jonathan opened his mouth to sing.

Chapter Text

His voice was like the first fresh awakening of a spring dawn, soothing against a fading winter season. It was calming, sweet and velvety. The production crew began to die down from their worries, listening to the Joestar's silvery singing, completely in awe at the soft tone filtering from a chorus boy. Perhaps even the cold-hearted ones among the groups began to turn their attention to the singer, tuning in the melodies.

Jonathan Joestar was a pure nightingale, flocking down from what seemed like whimsical fantasy to replace Kars' mawkish voice of a Barn Owl.

The gray haired managers began to soften to his carols that fit perfectly with the gentle piano notes, stealing glances at each other. They knew the party was just as enchanted as they were by the brunet's voice. Everyone seemed to be enthralled by the harmony that is Jonathan. The silvering Joseph dipped his head, hearing enough - the boy was to be the leading role's replacement, announcing with a hearty laughter that sent cheers throughout backstage, satisfied with the new actor. Erina had to be the loudest among them, glowing with joy.

Tuning to opening night, Jonathan was dressed in a black suit fitted with a garnet red bow tie. The circular spotlights glistened down on him, his features sparkling in the white light. He stood out exquisitely against the snow wonderland ambiance, frost and porcelain backgrounds glittering in the glow. The audience stared, astonished and fascinated at the new singer that stood politely onstage, frozen in their seats as they listened.

Jonathan had never thought he would lead an aria in an opera. Often, he recoiled in the smaller bits of the shows. Being the center of attention was something he was not fond of, so he chose to remain in the ballet group, where he met Erina. Though he could dance, harmonize in the chorus, perhaps even study a bit of archaeology in his spare time, Jonathan could really sing. Without even realizing most of the time, he would sing to himself when alone, stranded in the chapel staring at candlelight whilst making up jingles and tunes.

Now that he was onstage, center of attention by gleaming eyes and flaring lights, Jonathan felt himself break free of his shell of the repressed urge to sing. No longer was he reluctant, for this was his chance to prove he was more than someone backstage - more than a boy who's efforts went unnoticed. Now he mesmerized the spectators in their velvet seating, as he had been trained to do.

He was especially charming to a blond that sat in box five.

Robert E.O Speedwagon observed Jonathan from above, nearly breathless from the other's attractive voice. His eyes widened softly, studying the dark haired man's beautiful features as he reminisced in tender memories. The blond slowly smiled, hiding it with a palm gently.

"Could it be Jonathan?" He whispered to himself, not taking his eyes off the singer. Jonathan and Speedwagon were very young when they had first met - it was possibly they could have forgotten each other, but Speedwagon made sure not to let go of the boy that perfected his childhood in every way possible. Jonathan may not remember him, but Speedwagon surely remembered the other.

Jonathan's performance came to a closing with a bright high note, remaining dazzling as he broke into a soft toothy smile as the orchestra sealed the notes perfectly. The audience rang out with clapping hands, whistling and cheering, grateful they didn't pass on buying tickets when they heard Kars was replaced. The applause multiplied butterflies in Jonathan's stomach, but he knew he did amazing as thin roses jumped onstage at his feet. He looked around at the crowd after bowing, face beaming with delight as he soaked up the praise politely.

"Bravo!" Joseph and Polnareff celebrated, standing from their seats in their boxes.

"I knew he would do spectacular, Jean!" Joseph remarked with a grin to other.

Jonathan was sure to remember this day for the rest of his life. His first showing by himself was sure to send chills to his past self. He turned his head slightly to meet eyes with Erina, who watched from the right wing of the stage. She returned the smile whilst applauding loudly with the others. The silk curtains slid down, meeting together in front of Jonathan as he was closed off from the audience that still commended him. The ballet and chorus group swarmed him as the drapes fully closed, gushing excitedly at how well he sang. Jonathan shyly thanked them for the compliments, blushing at the sudden rush of people.

Elizabeth rubbed his shoulder approvingly as she approached from the side as well, pleased with his aria.

"You did very well, my dear," she murmured to the brunet over the enthusiastic chatters of the others, "he will be pleased."

Suddenly spinning on her heel, she glared at the other performers. "And you! You were a disgrace tonight! Such ronds de jambe! Such temps de cuisse!" The woman angrily yet playfully tapped her cane against the flooring. "We rehearse in half an hour! Go!"

The girls and boys fussed, yet trampled backstage to clean and change from their costumes. Elizabeth quickly halted Jonathan from following behind them.

"Go rest, Jonathan. You deserve it," she nodded her head, the beautiful smile returning to her lips. Jonathan wanted to object, but he was quite exhausted from his first solo performance. Thanking his mentor, he hurried offstage as Elizabeth stood watching for a moment until he disappeared from her line of sight.

Chapter Text

Jonathan made his way deep into the opera house, journeying to the quiet small chapel. Besides practicing singing in the dormitory, he often resided there as well. Carefully he strolled down the stone steps, passing candles hung on the walls, continuing down the path so familiar to him.

He entered the chapel, passing through the entry with no door. It was a small enclosure of dark stone with a miniature seating by the colorful stained glass window a few steps ahead. To the right, a golden candelabra sat, empty of flame.

The brunet opened a mini wooden crate, reaching in to pick up a box of matches. Carefully he opened it, picking out a tiny and thin match randomly with his thumb and pointer finger. He swiped it a few times against the side before the tip sparked into a bead of blaze, whispering as it lit. Jonathan rose his arm, lighting the slender, creamy yellow candle sticks. The wicks softly erupted in little flames, gently swaying in the cold atmosphere of the chapel.

Shaking it out, Jonathan placed it with other old used matches to the side. He stared at the flickering candles, before resting his eyes on the run down engraved markings in the metal. George Joestar.

As done many times before, he traced his finger along the name, his head becoming foggy with old memories. Though he did not remember much, Jonathan could remember the faint smile on his father's face when they chatted. His father's everlasting kindness before it vanished on his sickly deathbed.

Jonathan removed his finger, moving to sit on knees against the cold flooring, not once looking away from the candelabra. He silently thanked his deceased father for his confidence at his blessed performance, knowing he could not have done it without his spirit. The boy closed his eyes, expressing his gratitude and appreciation.

Jonathan could remember little of his childhood. He grew up without his mother, being a family of a boy and his father. George did well raising Jonathan, Elizabeth told him many times. Soon enough, his father passed as well, falling ill and bed-ridden. In his final moments, he handed his son a glittery golden ring with a shaky hand. It was a sight Jonathan would never forget, even in his own last minute.

It was the moment he closed his teary eyes did the brunet hear the familiar disembodied voice call to him from the shadows.

"Bravo, bravo, bravissimo..."

A warm smile lightened Jonathan's face, though freezing solid. The hairs on his arms pricked up beneath his coat, his skin shaky with goosebumps. He blinked open his eyes, keeping focus on the twitching candlelight. He knew very well who was here; who called him from the darkness of the isolated chapel.

"Jonathan..."

Jonathan shut his eyes once more, relaxing in the voice's presence. He was bewildered, yet excited, for it has come back to him after a few silent nights. Returning to sing softly to him in peaceful slumber. The being that guarded him in the dark, the teacher that guided him throughout his vocal lessons, the figure that soothed him on lonely nights without his father.

"Jonathan?"

A hand placed itself on his shoulder, causing him to tense and swivel around in fear as he quickly opened his eyes, slightly crawling backwards. He met with turquoise eyes, looking at him stunned. It was Erina Pendleton, staring with concern down at him.

"Goodness! My apologies, Erina," Jonathan choked out between shocked huffs, smiling. "You scared me."

Erina returned the light grin, removing her small hand from Jonathan's shoulder. "I apologize as well," she spoke as she lifted her skirt vaguely to sit herself next to Jonathan, who returned to his original position on his knees. "But why are you hiding in the chapel? I thought you would go rest after tonight."

"So you followed me?" Jonathan playfully questioned, raising an eyebrow. Erina blushed, darting her eyes away from him, smiling bigger.

"I only wanted to come congratulate you myself," she curled a lock of blond hair behind her ear shyly, "you did so well out there. I knew someday you would take the spotlight. You were an angel." She looked back at the brunet, admiring the candlelight reflecting his face before their eyes locked again.

"Oh, how you bluff, Erina," Jonathan denied sheepishly, "I could not have been as good as you say. There is still so much for me to learn." He removed his eyes from her and back to the candelabra. "I am here to thank my father for blessing me with my singing."

Erina turned her head to the candles as well, studying the name engraved in the golden stand and the faded name.

"You still have not explained to me your situation with your father," the blonde girl queried softly, tilting her head curiously at the other.

Jonathan did not look back, silently staring at the little fires that reflected his chocolate eyes. He debated to himself mentally, questioning whether or not he should tell Erina, afraid she would call him a fool.

"Erina, when Madame Elizabeth brought me here to live, whenever I'd come down here alone," he gulped down the fear raising in his chest, knowing he could trust the girl with this information. "A voice from above, and in my dreams, he was always there. When my father lay dying, he told me I would be protected by an angel. An Angel of Music."

"Do you believe the spirit of your father is coaching you?" Erina asked.

"Who else could it be?" the brunet cupped her hands with his own. Erina blushed at the action, glancing at their intertwined hands. "Many times he has sang to me. I have learned so much from him, Erina! It must be the Angel of Music!"

Erina's eyes flooded with worry. She hadn't realized how much of a dreamer Jonathan was, despite the years spent together in the opera house.

"Although he has never showed himself, I know he is always with me. I know it!" The brunet's eyes grew with wonder, gleaming at the thought of the angel appearing to him. Erina felt her heart pound in her ears. She had never seen Jonathan in such a fascinated expression - she found it lovely, but knew her feelings could come later. She let go of his hands and held the sides of his face.

"Jonathan, you must have been dreaming," the blonde noted, attempting to wake him up from his fantasy world. "Angels are only childish stories. You're speaking in riddles, and this is not like you..."

Jonathan didn't seem to listen, or perhaps even hear her words, for he was too ecstatic about the presence of the angel. He stepped out from her grasp, searching the room for someone, dancing and spinning with glee. "He is my guardian, Erina! The Angel of Music!" He burst into a fit of soft giggles, stopping to a halt as Erina reached out to hold his arms.

"Jonathan, there is no angel," Erina spoke gently, trying to snap him out of his trance.

"He is with me, Erina," Jonathan's voice slowly transitioned into a whisper, looking around the room before resting on Erina, whose hands glided back over to his.

"Your hands are cold," she murmured, feeling the icy olive skin worriedly. This was a side of the boy she had never seen before, rambling about a spirit sent from his father, not sure whether to believe him or not. Erina grew up taught angels were mere fairy tales, and everyone eventually grows out of the whimsical story once they are matured. However, Erina had heart wrenching feelings for Jonathan, and wanted to advice him to grow out of this.

For a while they stared at each other, faces flushing whilst holding hands. Erina grew breathless every time she got a glimpse of Jonathan. She wondered almost daily if he felt the same as well. How badly the girl wanted to know - wanted to be his and Jonathan hers.

The moment is broken when a cane tapped against the stone wall, the two turning to see Elizabeth standing in the doorway with a hand on her hip. "Erina Pendleton! Are you a dancer? Then come and practice."

Erina jumped before nodding, not wanting to let Jonathan's hands go. Hesitantly, the blonde drifted her hands away, giving the other a concerned glance before passing Elizabeth as she walked out of the chapel. The woman's eyes watched her leave, heels echoing off the walls as she climbed the stairs. She huffed and looked back at Jonathan, stepping forward. "My dear, I was asked to give you this."

Elizabeth reached into her dress' pocket, rustling as she pulled out a note. Jonathan gently took it, observing the paper. Before he could ask, Elizabeth was already gone, heading up the stairs from the chapel as well. He unfolded the letter with care, reading the contents inside muttering to himself.

"A red scarf... the fields ... Jojo."

Jonathan's face lit up at the signature below.

Chapter Text

"A tour de force! No other way to describe it!" Polnareff excitedly exclaimed. The pale haired man was accompanied with the senior Joseph, and his lovely blonde wife Suzi Quatro. Behind the loud three followed the hushed Speedwagon, in no need of small chat. The managers were in high spirits, happily sipping champagne from thin glasses.

"What a relief!" Joseph laughed, full of enthusiasm. "Not a single refund. We made quite a fortune from Jonathan Joestar!"

"How greedy," Suzi giggled, who was held beneath Joseph's free arm.

"I think we've made quite a discovery with him!" Polnareff remarked, swirling the liquid in his glass. The two managers shared a fruity chuckle. Speedwagon eyed them carefully, his heart skipping a beat at the memorable name.

Walking down the backstage hall, they came to a stop at a crowd of people amongst double doors. Elizabeth slid out, closing the big doors behind her, shooing the flock away. Her fussy snapping at the devotees and news reporters were barely audible from the joyful chattering. As she walked away, a handful followed her for questions.

Joseph cleared his throat rather loudly, turning to Speedwagon. "Here we are, monsieur. As you asked."

The blond patron nodded his head in thanks, approaching the doors before pausing. "Gentlemen, if you wouldn't mind - this is one visit I'd prefer to make unaccompanied."

The managers and Suzi halted, sharing quick glances at each other, surprised.

"As you wish, monsieur."

Speedwagon nodded again with a light smile. "Thank you."

The three turned back around and continued down the hallway, baffled. Polnareff silently reflected, "It would appear they've met before."

Hesitantly Speedwagon knocked on the doors twice, then three times, growing shy out of nowhere. He placed his hand on the ornate doorknob, pushing open one door. He peeked in quietly, a lump forming in his throat.

The room was filled with florals and ferns of greens and pinks. The walls were neatly decorated with golden paintings of lush field-like depictions, matching well with the flowers in their glittery glass pottery. White patterned carpet led straight forward to a lean floor mirror that stood proudly across the room, the candelabras reflecting off the polished glass. To the far right, Jonathan Joestar sat at an elegant white vanity littered in cosmetics and hair equipment. He was still wrapped in his evening's performance attire. The brunet fondled with a thin crimson rose, staring at a bow that wrapped around its stem. He was so deep in thought, he hadn't heard Speedwagon knock or the doorknob turn. Speedwagon gulped, smiling through his own fast paced heartbeat.

"My, JoJo, where is your scarf?"

The dark haired boy jumped in shock, turning his head toward the other. "M-Monsieur?"

"You can't have just lost it after all the trouble I took," The vicomte shut the door gently behind him, pulling off his hat. "I was just fourteen and soaked to the skin..."

"Because you had to run into the lake to fetch my scarf!" Jonathan's eyes glowed brightly with delight, glittering. "Oh, Robert, it's you!"

Jonathan pushed back his chair, quickly leaping up and pacing over to hug him. They laughed together in each other's warm embrace, tightly holding each other. Speedwagon had forgotten how loving Jonathan's hold was, getting a whiff of Jonathan's sweet perfume.

"It's been so long," Jonathan murmured into Speedwagon's shoulder. "I'm so happy to see you again, Robert."

"Me too, JoJo."

"You still remember my childhood nickname?" Jonathan slowly pulled back to look at Speedwagon, a faint blush sweeping across his face when the blond continued to hold him by the waist.

"How could I forget?" Speedwagon quietly chuckled. "You were a light in my life. Playing in the fields with you, reading books and catching bugs. We were childhood sweethearts, as you used to say."

Jonathan's face burned red quicker than a blink, playfully pushing the teasing vicomte away. "Oh, hush!" They fell into another burst of giggles, the young memories thrusting itself back into spotlight in their heads. Speedwagon placed his plum hat on the iron hat-stand to the side, following Jonathan who returned to his seat at the vanity. He grabbed a chair of his own, sitting down a step away from the brunet.

Speedwagon was another clear memory to Jonathan from his childhood. He couldn't exactly pinpoint why, as a child, Jonathan didn't make any friends during school. Perhaps it was his own bashfulness and anxieties. An inner voice.

Yet, the boy had managed to break through Jonathan's shell and the two became best friends. They would play endlessly in the meadows together until dusk. When one was sick, the other would visit to cheer them up. Always were they there for each other - two peas in a pod, as some would say.

"I never knew you could sing," Speedwagon murmured, reminiscing the other's beautiful evening staging. "Madame Elizabeth did well coaching you."

"It wasn't Madame Elizabeth, mostly," the dark haired boy rubbed the back of his neck shyly.

"Oh, then who, darling? I should thank them for awakening such a beauty within you."

Jonathan chose to dismiss the name and sweet words, eyes darting away timidly from Speedwagon's adoring stare. "Robert, do you believe in angels? Ghosts, even?"

Speedwagon blinked in surprise at the sudden strange topic. "That depends," he laced his fingers together, nearly squatting on the chair. "I guess I do, considering you are possibly a gift from the Heavens."

"Goodness, when did you become such a flirt?!" Jonathan blazed red again, hiding his face with his palms. Speedwagon snorted before snickering lively, finding the brunet's shyness cute.

"My apologies," the blond coughed, biting back another laugh when Jonathan peeked at him through his fingers. "Ah, back to your question," he hummed in thought before answering, pondering his own beliefs. "I suppose I do, with enough evidence. Why do you ask?"

Jonathan hesitated, resting his palms onto his knees. "Well... It is nothing bad, I assure you, but I do think something has been watching me, Robert."

"Really?" Speedwagon perked a brow, intrigued. "What makes you think that?"

Jonathan's hands moved to his arms, a habit of comforting himself when anxious. He remembered what happened with Erina earlier - denying his guardian's existence. It broke his heart, seeing one of his best friends doubting his words. He wanted to tell Robert about the voice, to see if he could hear it as well, as Erina made him question himself.

"When I moved into the opera house as a child, I would hear someone sing to me in my lonely slumber. Someone that soothed me when I cried for my father and y-you," Jonathan avoided Speedwagon's face, desiring not to read what expression he might be wearing. "It disappeared as I have grown older, but when I sang this evening, I heard it again!"

Speedwagon only listened, perplexed by Jonathan's tale. Unlike Erina, he had previously known Jonathan was very much a dreamer. The boy was always so invested into reading fairy tales and story books, for he had always shared them with Speedwagon whenever he had the chance. It was a trait of Jonathan's that the blond admired; loved, even.

"You see, my father had told me he would send the 'Angel of Music' to me," the dark haired singer echoed his previous words to Erina from earlier in the chapel. "Now he is dead, Robert. And I have been visited by the Angel of Music-"

"Oh, there's no doubt of it!" Speedwagon reached over to hold Jonathan's warm fidgeting hands. "This energy from your father has certainly made you stand out."

"Certainly, but-"

"And now, we shall go to supper. To catch up with each other, for old time's sake." The vicomte paused on his words when he saw the disheartened look in Jonathan's eyes. "I would love to know more about this 'Angel', but I am much more interested in your wellbeing. I don't want you to be miserable thinking about your father."

"O-Oh, Robert, I would love to, but the Angel of Music is very strict," the Joestar gulped, fear hollowing out his chest. Who knows what his teacher would do if it were to find Jonathan ignoring lessons and heading off with a man for dinner?

"I shan't keep you out late," Speedwagon insisted with a smile, standing from his chair and walking to the tall double doors.

"No, Robert-"

"You must change!" he plucked his bowler hat from the stand, carefully adjusting it on his head. He opened the door with a creak. "I'll call for a carriage. Two minutes, JoJo!"

"Robert, wait!"

The door shut with a gentle thud, and Speedwagon happily whistled his way down the hall to catch a carriage as he promised. However, he did not notice the ominous figure in the shadows, leaning over to lock the dressing room's doors behind him with an ornamented iron key.

Jonathan leaned back in his seat nervously, glancing around the room. He felt like a fool. Perhaps Erina was right - it could only have been a childish dream to comfort himself during lonesome nights. It frustrated him more when neither Erina nor Speedwagon believed him.

Yet, he reminded himself that someday he was to grow out of this fictional fantasy and move on. Jonathan had moved on. But after his evening performance, he found himself hearing the familiar voice again. It surprised and confused him that he had heard it in the chapel, as usually he would hear the violinic murmuring in the dormitory. He wasn't sure if he was to feel delighted or afraid that it had returned.

Jonathan shook his head, wanting to forget about the Angel. Tonight, he wanted to dine with Robert E.O Speedwagon, not with disembodied singing that a normal person would find haunting. He wanted to catch up with Speedwagon as much as the other did, an ocean of questions flooding his head that he wanted to ask.

While changing out of his silk black coat behind the golden debonair room divider, Jonathan's skin started to prickle. He could feel eyes staring at him, glinting and burning. Though it wasn't an unfamiliar sensation, it felt different than the other times he had experienced watchful stares when he was alone. He hurried his process, wanting to exit the dressing room as fast as possible, considering the Angel's presence was foreseeable.

He fitted himself into simple attire of a white dress shirt with its collars frilled elegantly and black pants that hugged his well built legs, slipping on leather boots. He didn't want to go too formal, knowing Speedwagon would find him lovely in anything.

That thought alone made Jonathan feel giddy inside, stomach bouncing with excitement. He thought how lucky he was to get to eat with an old companion of his childhood, shaky with joy that made it difficult to fix his hair. Eagerly he fluffed the locks of brown, checking all angles in the vanity.

As Jonathan sat up from the soft cushioned chair, the sense of observing eyes grew stronger. Dread shredded at his gut. He felt small against the shadowy presence in the room.

The beads of flame blew out with a whisper, leaving the candelabras darkened and the wax sticks empty. The dressing room was engulfed with shadows, absent of any illumination. Jonathan gasped lightly, nearly jumping at the strange and sudden change, feeling cold as tension filled the room.

Quickly he paced from the back of the room for the door, striding across the carpet. His heartbeat was loud in his ears, fear practically choking him as he breathed heavily. He placed his hand on one wide doorknob, freezing in place as a booming orotund voice poured from the shadows of the room.

"Insolent boy! This slave of fashion, basking in your glory!"

Jonathan's eyes widened in horror, shivering at the fury edged in its violent gravelly tone. He felt himself stopped in his own tracks, unable to make any sort of movement.

"Ignorant fool! This brave young suitor, sharing my triumph!"

It scorned with hostility, seething and spitting. It was back, and frenzied at the ignorant speak from Erina and Speedwagon.

Jonathan pulled his trembling hand away from the doorknob, not daring to leave the room when the Angel made his presence known. Though he was jittery of its glaring tone, a part of him felt happy to hear its voice again. He mustered up the courage to reply, while trying to relax from panicking.

"Angel, I hear you," Jonathan practically whispered, his voice soft against the ghost's rage, "please tell me I do not imagine you. Reveal yourself to me, and I will continue your teaching." He turned away from the door, back facing it as he stared into the dark dressing room, trying to spot the source.

"Do you listen to those who deny me of existence? Are you to take my teachings for granted, and leave your master of credit?"

"No!" The brunet quickly stated, pinching his brows together anxiously. "I would never, Angel. My soul was weak - forgive me."

Jonathan's hands rose to his shoulders again, soothing himself from the stun it had given him, and the icy feel creeping in the room. He felt ashamed he had started to deny it as well, guilty of doubting himself and the Angel. He longed for its amnesty, awaiting its response from the darkness.

"Very well. Look at yourself in the mirror, pupil." Its tone softened, honeyed and gentle as it seemed to calm down to Jonathan's answer.

Jonathan's skittish gaze made its way ahead, where the carpet lead across the room to the tall mirror standing proudly beside plants. He squinted his eyes through the darkness. Vaguely, he could see himself, standing puzzled in front of the doors.

Light seemed to shine from behind the golden ornate frame, slightly brightening the room. Jonathan blinked in surprise, continuing to peer at his reflection. His heart began to pace faster once more as he could see a shape beginning to appear inside it.

A mask of stone, a dark gray plate with a luminescent crimson from beneath the eye gap. As the light began to intense, it highlighted more features of a face that stared back at the frozen singer ahead.

Jonathan gazed in awe, bewildered and fascinated. His eyes glittered excitedly, and he found himself taking small steps closer to the mirror. There was no doubt of it - the Angel of Music was here, and it drew Jonathan in with nothing but mere charm.

This was a scene Jonathan had dreamed of. How long he had wanted to see, to feel, to know the ethereal being that serenaded him at night. The guardian that shielded him from miserable nightmares without his family. The Angel of Music his father promised to send. Here it was, egging him to come closer and into its hold. It made Jonathan almost reel and faint from the bursting joy in his heart, a warm gaping smile across his cheeks and wide eyes.

As he neared the reflective glass, the mask covered a quarter of the right of the being's sharp face. Golden locks of hair rested against pale, milky white skin that glowed in the strange light.

Lost of breath, Jonathan happily gaped at the beautiful man behind the mirror. He placed a quivering hand on the glass, captivated by the gleaming blood red eye that stared back, uncovered by the eerie vizard. Could he be dreaming? Was he lost in hopeful yearning slumber again?

Jonathan got his answer when fog began to creep out from the mirror, slowly circling the room. He was not aware of it, for the lanky mirror began to move, creakily sliding to the side with more violent flashes of uncanny light. He jerked back slightly in surprise, holding his arms close to his abdomen.

"Come to me, Jonathan."

The doorknob rattled. Speedwagon has returned, and has heard the voice inside.

"Whose is that voice? Who is that in there?" He wondered anxiously, trying the doorknob again. The door wouldn't budge. It was locked from the outside. Quickly he knocked, calling for Jonathan worriedly. "Jonathan?"

The brunet did not hear him - perhaps couldn't. He stared uneasily at a thin hand, long fingers tipped with claw-like nails that urged him to take hold. Hesitantly, he stepped closer, reaching over to intertwine fingers.

Speedwagon heaved backwards before kicking open the double doors. They swung open, hitting the walls with a harsh thud. He paced inside, overcome with worry, wanting reassurance that Jonathan simply didn't hear him again. Yet, it never came, as Jonathan had disappeared from the dressing room, no trace left behind.

Chapter Text

Jonathan took hold of the ice cold hand, stepping out of the dressing room. The mirror sealed shut behind him in a quick slice, fog puffing at the sides. Behind the dark and slim figure, lean golden candelabras lit up in rows. It illuminated a long hallway of ghostly grey stone with sinister green flames twitching on top of thin candlesticks.

As his eyes adjusted to the strange sight, he took notice of the frigid boney fingers lacing him. Nails outstretched into black animalistic claws. He trailed up the arm encased in royal blue sleeves, glittery golden bracelets wrapping forearms divinely. Sleeves ended at pale shoulders with muscles that rippled in the glitter of light. Two brown leather belts hugged a fitted waist, the largest ringing a dazzling heart. They led out to slim yet toned legs doused in white. Long leather faux boots lengthened what was already towering height, golden spheres dotting the edges of the sealing.

Jonathan's eyes darted back upwards, staring at the celestial being. A torso of blue rimmed with more gold unfolded a vest layered in merlot red. A cravat of satin tastefully hemmed with sparkling lace lay against a bare chest of pasty skin, secured with a jewel of emerald brimmed with amber. The vest up-streamed a sharp collar of bordered gold, separating frosty white and red.

A river of flaxen yellow hair trailed out to a thick neck, layering out a mullet. Narrow spirals of gold bangs brushed past a sharp outline of a face. Features were shadowed by the dark and little light that was of close proximity.

With no warning, it started to move, turning to face the hallway that outstretched into nothing but an unwelcoming void that chilled Jonathan. The grip on his trembling hand coaxed him to follow; locked in a trance that he eagerly accepted.

They leisurely strolled down the dim hallway. Feet inched against regal purple carpet rolled out against the cold stone floor. The eldritch green light reflected against marble pillars, strange burgundy silk hanging from the tops. Some appeared torn and ripped, others perfectly fitted or cloaked downwards. Against the walls trimmed in stone were broad mirrors, the occasional few screened with the velvet draping. The candlelight gleamed against the visible ones, shining off each other.

Jonathan was overflowed with sudden emotion, focusing on the man guiding him through the darkness. He was anxious, yet intrigued and star-struck. His racing heartbeat faltered into a state of calmness and awe.

Its presence overbore Jonathan with nimble grace and beauty, leaving him of no words to speak. Sentences lingered in his mouth, jaw dropping slightly every now and then to gather any chat he could think of - but nothing came.

The mysterious silence only lured him in closer, pulling the young man into arcane bliss of the night.

This, the Phantom of the Opera, has finally revealed its haunting physique. The heavenly wraith that shadowed the contents of the opera house, only speaking in honeyed tongue to the young Joestar, gracing him with devoted serenades long after twilight.

A saintly creature, almost like a man, chanted symphonies to a chorus boy that longed for the sultry presence of the Angel of Music.

But now that the voice finally called to him, Jonathan was not one to decline.

The Angel tipped its head sideways in Jonathan's direction, seeming to check on him. The cryptic mask of stone, vaguely cracked to age, hid a large portion to the right of a pale masculine face. On the left, a sharp and dark outlined eye donning a pupil of scorching red flames stared into wide brown ones.

These flames nearly made Jonathan's knees buckle if not for the leading grip. His breath caught in his throat, feeling his blood run cold at the surveying fiery eye that was no different to the watching stare he'd felt for many years.

Jonathan's gaze tore away, anxiously staring down at their rhythmic pacing. From the corner of his eyes, he watched lips spread into a smile that released a gruff yet throaty chuckle. It made his cheeks flush, warmth spreading throughout his face.

When the Angel returned focus to the front, they neared a closing to the long hallway. Velvet curtains parted to unveil a stairwell that spiraled down into an abyss. The man extended his free hand, hoisting a lit torch from the wall into his hold. He kept it head, lighting their path down into darkness. Dark foliage wove around the stone outlines in the walls, vines curling around the steps. The sound of trickling water soon made its way into earshot.

Jonathan knew there would be no going back. His spirit and soul already belonged to the Angel. He'd promised it the night he accepted its harmonies. His patience rewarded him with the comforts that his father vowed to send him - the oath of the Angel of Music.

At the end of the twisting stairwell, more greenery lined the walls. It sprouted into arrays of blood red roses, wafting a strong yet soothing scent. Behind columns was a wooden boat, an iron lantern glowing at the stem. In front of it, a glossy lake fanned out, paving more into the shadowy labyrinth.

The phantom adjusted the torch into an empty ornamented sconce. He helped lift Jonathan into the boat, where he sat snugly in the seat on his knees. Part of him didn't want to let go of the hand, already accustomed to the foreign chill.

Jonathan watched the Angel raise a long oar into his hands, stepping into the wooden craft. He stood tall on the flat bottom. Piercing the stick into the water, he set a pace and began to row gently through the lake laced with mist. Jonathan turned to look ahead, admiring the new world.

More candelabras hid behind thick pillars, mixing with fog. Large golden pots and cauldrons held bushes of roses, crimson dotting the leaves. Curtains hung like banners connected the marble columns, tassels twitching. The sound of the oar maneuvering through the water began to subdue the young man, lulling him into a sense of security and homage. Slowly, his alarmed instincts began to smooth out, relaxing into the macabre spirit's domain. He no longer needed to dream, for now the Angel was here.

Fantasies shaped into realities. Guidance created connection.

Extensive burgundy curtains divided, peeling back to reveal a black iron gate. Rowing further, the gate creaked and lifted, trailing moss and dripping water. They curved slightly, drifting into a wide room. Stone carved out to form a lair, one filled and littered with candles in intricate sconces. Books and papers of all shapes and sizes stacked on tables and packed into shelves. More curtains arrayed the walls, mirrors tucked behind them. Trinkets and ornaments cluttered beneath the candelabras. An organ piano fitted perfectly between stone walls, light making the pipes glitter. To the side, curtains were lifted a little that led to a dim bedroom.

The boat came to a stop as it hit the floor. The Angel stepped out of the boat, placing the oar into a holder off to the side.

Jonathan scanned the view, studying the foreign home before him, hands on his thighs. As his gaze wandered, it halted on the other, a blood red iris freezing him in place.

"Welcome," he spoke, the corners of lips upturned in a smile, "to my haven."

Chapter Text

"You're home now," the Angel smiled, "at the seat of sweet music's throne."

Jonathan watched the other silently, stationed in the iron cased boat in the still water. He was bewitched by the being's wistful presence, incomparable to only hearing its voice in the quiet chapel. The beauty of his enchanting labyrinth - filled with giant candelabrums and abstracted architecture - one someone would only find in divine dreams or storybooks of a handsome prince.

"Since the moment I first lay eyes on you, I have needed you here beside me," the crimson eye upturned into a crescent as the smile grew, "to serve me, to sing, for my music."

Jonathan was left speechless again, unsure of what to say with a sense of respectful silence. Should he trust this spirit that proclaimed the title as an Angel of Music? He was sure the soul of his father was guiding him onto a thriving path. Who was this man with golden hair and a stone mask? Is he the same voice who gave him a conscious of alleviation through youth?

That wonder of childlike curiosity egged him on. If he dreamed for its reveal, why was he to reject the Angel now?

The Phantom extended a pale hand, fingers slightly curled. Jonathan took hold, being guided up from the boat as the man with golden hair watched with his craving red eye. The hand's cold touch flooded Jonathan's senses again, nostalgic and comforting. They took slow steps into the underground lair, lost in each other's warmth and tender stares.

Jonathan looked at the wall patterned with music sheets, poems, and obscene artwork that he couldn't interpret. Most papers ended abruptly with a harsh swing of a pen. Others were written beautifully in alternating languages, being French and Italian. Curling vines wove around the stones, leaves draping over the sheets. He could feel the other's gaze on him, burning his skin and tearing through the muscle.

"For years I have awaited your arrival at my domain," the Angel breathed. Jonathan glanced at their intertwined hands, watching him feel the shape of Jonathan's fingers, relishing the way it shivered when he stroked against the olive skin. "Let my music caress you, as it always has."

Jonathan's eyes returned upwards, glistening nervously through tones of brown and tinted sapphire.

"Hear the melody of my words, feel the consoling of my darkness. You will see that it is more comforting that the blinding anguish of the sun - how it burns and taints your skin when you bask in its grace for too long," the night mentor murmured, grazing his free hand up onto the brunet's jaw, keeping his eyes glued to him. Jonathan felt his thumb toy teasingly with his soft skin, his face slightly coloring at the innocent touch.

"Submit yourself to my grace, as we are made for each other," the masked man continued, "it is only fate that you are here before me. Before the Angel of Music."

His pale boney hand released Jonathan, skimming towards the young man's stomach. Jonathan said nothing as he trembled at the caress, feeling the other tracing his muscles beneath his shirt before gently fondling the outline of his ribs.

"Wouldn't you agree destiny is a beautiful process? Although it takes patience, it has brought you to me so we can connect," the golden hair man closed the distance, wrapping his arms around Jonathan's waist, both breathing in each other's scents. Jonathan tasted the silvery aroma, a fragrance of candlewax shoveled with dusty books and paper, layered with sweet misted roses. He took the chilling embrace, relaxing in the soft prodding hands and coaxing words.

"Savor these sensations, even though I would let you wallow in them daily." the Angel lowered to the side of Jonathan's cheek, wintery breath tickling his sensitive skin. "Put your trust in me and surrender to the music of the night, Jonathan."

Jonathan closed his eyes, bringing a hand to caress the masked side of the Angel's face. The plate was unsurprisingly cold, prickling goosebumps up the brunet's arm. Was he to finally let himself free into the Phantom's bliss? To purge his thoughts of the life he thought he knew? For two to become one?

"Let my darkness give you the comfort you have craved for for so long. Something nobody but I will give you." The ethereal wraith purred, submerging his nose into Jonathan's locks of hair. "Dio - that is my name."

Jonathan's eyes opened, lashes fluttering as he soaked in the name.

"Italian for God," the young brunet spoke softly, recalling his Italian studies when he was younger.

"And am I not one?" the Angel - Dio - smiled, red eyes meeting Jonathan once more. "What is a God that doesn't rule or teach? A master that doesn't adore?" He rose a thumb to Jonathan's chin, his sharp black nail prodding at the plush lip.

"For years, I have watched you. I've seen you experience many things, be it good or bad. My patience has rewarded me greatly." Dio hummed softly. One hand fitted Jonathan's waist, the other snaking onto the collar of his dress shirt. Jonathan didn't notice - entirely lost in Dio's heavenly aura, floating in his abyss of music.

Dio's nails dug into the shirt, peeling it aside slowly to unveil soft skin and a sharp collarbone. He ran a tongue over his lips, salivating at the sight.

"Dio," Jonathan whispered, eyes closing again, "I'm forever grateful for you in my life. Father must be happy-"

Jonathan was cut off abruptly, feeling himself lean on his heels. A hand dragged down his back, holding him tightly. Another hand gripped his wrist, lifted his arm forward. Dio pulled him closer, digging his fangs into Jonathan's neck. He sucked and smiled at the warm blood oozing out, olive flesh turning pink from the scathing skin.

Jonathan cried out, gasping at the harsh and burning sensation before falling limp in Dio's arms and losing consciousness. Dio took this opportunity to enjoy Jonathan's taste once more before swooping his hands over his legs to hold him. He carried Jonathan across his lair, pushing through the curtained doorway ahead.

Through the curtains was Dio's bedroom, strong with green lighting. A large canopy bed stood tall in the middle of the room, dark velvet draping the edges. Candles cornered the bedroom, dimly illuminating the room. The masked man lay Jonathan onto the bed, watching him sink delicately into the sheets.

Dio rubbed the brunet's tender cheek gently, staring at Jonathan's slumbering face that he'd become familiar with. His smile never left as he watched Jonathan's chest rise and fall, content with the satisfying thought that Jonathan now belonged to him.

Chapter Text

That night, Speedwagon looked everywhere for Jonathan. He tore up the dressing room searching (which Madame Elizabeth yelled at him for), and was appalled Jonathan had vanished out of thin air. The vicomte went to his closest friend, Erina Pendleton, but she hadn't a clue where he was either. They called for search parties, going as far as contacting policemen for aid.

Nobody could find Jonathan. There was nothing that could serve as evidence to his whereabouts.

Perhaps someone did know. They kept quiet and helped look, even though they knew nobody was going to find him.

Soon the news reached troublesome fools who didn't have a sense of brain to keep quiet. An Englishman of swept brown hair and simple suspenders, the young Joseph Joestar took the horrifying news to scare the juvenile production and boost his own ego.

The ballet girls gasped and shrieked playfully at Joseph's mocking miniature performance, who wielded a lengthy piece of fabric draped over himself to act as a cloak. He glared his ocean eyes cheekily from beneath the cloak.

"With skin as pale as yellow parchment," Joseph snooped around, eating up the nervous stares at him, "and a great black hole serving as the nose that never grew..."

He reached into the pocket of his breeches, letting the cloak fall to the ground. Gloved fingers grasped a hefty rope, pulling it from the pocket and showing it to the girls who gasped at the sight. Silently, his hands worked to pull the rope together - creating a haunting circular figure of the hangman's noose.

"He'll strangle you to your death if you are unlucky," Joseph explained. He inserts his hand between his neck and the noose. "You must be always on your guard."

He pulled the rope taut. His hand collided with the rope, freeing himself easily from the noose. The ballet girls applaud at the demonstration with a mixture of horror and delight.

"And if you aren't, he'll catch you!" Joseph smugly warned, pulling the young Suzi Q in front of him, wrapping the rope around her and restricting her arms. She squeaked at the sudden act, giggling as Joseph snarled rascally into her neck. "Then seal your fate with his magical lasso."

A curtain far off in the dormitory pulled back, and Elizabeth walked over swiftly whilst glaring a storm. She freed Suzi from the Englishman's mischievous handling, and snatched the rope from Joseph's hands.

"Get back in bed, Suzi," Elizabeth strictly commanded. Suzi said nothing, obeying quietly as she continued back down through the beds.

The instructor returned her frown back on Joseph. "It would be wiser to keep silent, Joseph. You never know when he is watching."

"Even if he was, there's no chance of him strangling me. It is far too easy to escape his method of killing," Joseph scoffed, rolling his eyes yet anxiously scratching the back of his head.

"Hold your tongue," Elizabeth immediately hissed, returning the rope pulling it over his head and hoisting it on his throat - not tight enough to choke him, but enough to scare him. "Or he will burn you with the heat of his eyes."

The others in the room let out frightened gasps, stirred at Elizabeth's sudden hostility. She loosened the rope and pulled it from the Englishman.

"Leave, Joseph. You should not be in the ladies' dormitories."

Joseph seemed like he was going to object - lips parted and slightly curved down angrily. He simply flared his nostrils, biting back his retort. He turned and walked out the dorm's doors, shutting them behind him.

Elizabeth shakily sighed, keeping the rope she would dispose later at her hip. She turned her head towards the girls. "You have nothing to fear. Go to bed now, my dears."

They rustled quietly into their beds, whispering to each other with tension still thick in the room.

Elizabeth returned to the deeper part of the dormitory, approaching a bed with a young girl sitting on the sheets. She fixed the pillows before rubbing the girl's back gently.

"Don't worry about Jonathan, Erina. He will turn up soon," Elizabeth coaxed softly, parting Erina's blonde bangs from her face.

Erina looked up into Elizabeth's eyes, washed over with dismay and worry. The ballet girl said nothing, fixating her stare back onto the floor. She had noticed a strange certainty in her instructor's voice, but spoke nothing of it.

Erina was exhausted from scouting all night for her friend, overworked with the distress of Jonathan's sudden disappearance. Truthfully, she was absolutely mortified - Jonathan always told her where he was going. Even if it was just to sleep. He barely left the opera house, so why now did he suspiciously withdraw?

She knew there was something amiss. She knew there was a missing piece to the puzzle. But there was nothing Erina could do. She could only place her trust in Jonathan that he knew his rights and wrongs.

"Yes," Erina sighed unsteadily, "I hope he is okay."

Chapter Text

Jonathan awoke slowly, parting his heavy eyelids. He lay warm beneath heavy soft blankets in a dim green bedroom. A soft lullaby-like melody shook him awake, drifting throughout the room.

His eyes searched the room for the source, squinting through the darkness.

Beside the vast canopy bed, what appeared to be a toy sat upon a nightstand. Two miniature statues twirled together in unison as the music played.

Jonathan sat up in the bed, leaning towards the object. As his eyes adjusted, he studied it carefully. The figures' appearances seemed oddly familiar.

This was not randomly constructed. The details were precise, accurate, beautifully hand-crafted with paper mache. Painted over with layers of fine grey paste.

The waltzing bodies were unwittingly Jonathan and the Angel of Music - Dio.

He watched them inch circularly with wide eyes, awed at the elaborate formed miniature statues of himself and Dio. He wasn't sure if he should feel flattered or chilled.

Once the soft tunes ceased and the statues halted in place, Jonathan began to unfold himself from the contents of the bed. His body was filled with a strange ache, like he was run over by a runaway carriage and trampled by the horses.

Every limb felt numbingly sore, and did he try to turn his head, a sharp pierce to his neck froze him in place.

Quickly Jonathan hopped from the bed, walking over to the floor mirror near the doorway. He examined himself carefully.

He was still in last night's attire - white dress shirt carefully buttoned up and black pants encasing his legs. His shoes were at the edge of Dio's bed, white socks protecting him from the freezing flooring.

The strange pain in his neck puzzled him, driving his hands to undo a button at his collar. He popped one open, then two, running his fingers over his collarbone.

He pulled them back when he touched what felt like holes in his neck, glancing at his stunned expression in his reflection. Returning his hands, he pulled open his shirt wider.

To his dismay, two twinning holes rest close upon Jonathan's neck, just above his peculiar star birthmark. It glistened its bloody red in the candle light through a layer of scab.

Did Dio do this? Jonathan wondered as he buttoned his shirt back up, not wanting to look at any more parts of his aching body. He stepped away from the mirror, pulling back the curtains in the doorway and poking his head through before fully exiting the bedroom.

He remembered little of what happened last night. It all felt like one painfully long dream, but knowing he had woken up in someone else's bed gave him the knowledge he certainly wasn't.

There was the large glossy lake that fanned out to Dio's underground lair, glowing mist lacing the water. A wooden boat with its lantern empty of light lay still on top, kept in place at the edge of the flooring. There were the roses that lined between the bricks in the wall, like red eyes that stared straight through him.

Red eyes like the man that sat at his organ piano, hunched over and working. He was dressed similar to Jonathan, nightwear of a contrasting midnight black. Golden ethereal hair rested on wide shoulders, parting slightly whenever his head moved. He scribbled upon papers, white feather pen whispering as it wrote.

Dio turned from his workspace, looking back at Jonathan in quiet surprise. The red eye stared coldly before immediately softening, a smile working around his lips.

He said nothing, dipping his head in a greeting before returning to his work. Jonathan sheepishly made his way over, rubbing his hands together as he leaned over Dio's shoulder at his documents.

A draft of a music sheet was being crafted from Dio's creative mind and brilliance, lyrics jotted down and some crossed out, notes replaced and removed.

In bold words read the name of the opera - "Phantom Blood's Tragedy".

Jonathan got lost in his own thoughts as he observed, recalling the soft spoken words last night.

Were Dio's intentions true? Would he really stay with him?

That youthful energy in Jonathan flooded his head, wanting to stay with Dio forever. His praising speech and charming comments had him swept off his feet - quite literally, though Jonathan couldn't remember that part.

Even if it was their first in-person meeting, they'd known each other longer, right? A strong bond and connection had formed through a decade of music.

So why was Dio to hide away behind a stone mask? To secure an identity? To fool Jonathan that Dio was not who he thought he was?

Without realizing, Jonathan's hands began to creep over the flaxen hair, stroking it softly as his fingers crept closer to the mask atop pale skin.

What did the Angel have to hide? Who is this Dio his father had promised to send?

Dio's eye closed, freezing before softening into Jonathan's sudden caress. He rests in the brunet's warm hands, admiring the feel he'd yearned for for ages.

Who was that shape in the shadows? Whose face hides behind the mask crafted of old stone?

Jonathan's fingers skulked on the heavy veil's edge, feeling his heart race. Carefully he grasped it with his fingertips, peeling it slowly from Dio's features. He stared at the underside of the stone disguise, turning his head to look at the revealed visage.

A heavy arm swung Jonathan away, his feet slipping as he stumbled backwards. His back hit a mirror, the impact shattering the glass walling and pieces littered against him. He slumped downwards as a fiery sting swept into his head, eyes forcing shut.

"DAMN YOU!" Jonathan heard Dio scream, rage rasping his voice. Dio stood from his chair, tossing it aside as if it were paper.

Jonathan fluttered his eyes open, blinking away a menacing blur and a ringing bouncing around his skull. His eyes locked on Dio, who was glaring furiously back at him.

The mask, now on the floor near Jonathan, uncovered the skin on Dio's features. Flesh bubbled pink, veins pulsing from beneath the skin eerily. A mirroring red eye's upper lid was puffed and purplish, the lower lid pulled downwards to show off the watery pink eye muscle.

Instantly, a hand slapped onto the disfigurement, concealing the horror abruptly. A growl, inhumane and animalistic, vibrated from Dio's throat - a guttural sound of exasperated hostility. He approached Jonathan with rugged footsteps, nose flaring.

"DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE?" Dio snarled. A swift hand wrung itself around Jonathan's bare throat, nails digging through his flesh.

Jonathan gasped, unprepared for the sudden violence. Instinctively he clawed at the hand strangling him, desperately trying to escape the restrain. The overwhelming fear in his body only made it difficult, shakily trying to free himself.

"I-I'm sorry-" Jonathan choked, nearly screaming when the grip on him tightened. Tears leaked onto his eyelids, struggling for oxygen to run through his system. At any moment his chords could snap and crush - resulting in easy death.

Dio growled again, loosening his hold slightly, only to throw Jonathan back onto the ground with a harsh swing. "YOU LITTLE VIPER!"

Jonathan held his burning throat, staining his palms red. He shut his eyes, coughing and breathing heavily. Pain washed over his senses, a static numbing his thoughts and a throbbing agony in his head blurred his vision.

Dio turned his back to Jonathan, taking a few steps before lashing out again and knocking over a golden vase. Another frenzied hiss escaped from gritting fangs.

"Curse myself for trusting you - a filthy human filled with selfishness," he spat, shaking his head miserably. Jonathan kept one hand soothing his throat, the other holding his pounding head. He remained disheveled on the flooring, shaking in terror.

"Humans have a sick curiosity to them," Dio grated his teeth, "they take no consideration of others. I thought you were different, Jonathan."

Jonathan lifted his head, angling his sight at Dio's back. His eyes watered with tears, nose tingling sharply.

"For years, I have awaited this day, and it has been ruined with your selfishness!" The blond suddenly slammed his fist onto a table close-by, rattling the contents on it and making Jonathan jolt with fear.

Jonathan's consciousness began to return, sight fixating slowly. His wild cerulean tinted eyes stayed locked on Dio's back.

What had happened?

Why is the Angel breaking his promise of doing no harm?

Jonathan glanced at the hand clutching his throat, turning it over and staring in horror at the blood painting his olive palm. When Dio began to speak again, he darted his eyes back up immediately.

"Now I cannot let you free. You will leave me and forever avoid me in fear. You will think of me as a beast that hides underground," the Phantom muttered fiercely, straightening his posture. He veered his head, staring down at Jonathan with his wrathful gaze.

"But you see, fear can turn to love," Dio fixed his tone, honeying it and adding his bittersweet lies that he'd fed to Jonathan many times before. "Even if you do see me as a beast now, you'll learn to see that I am not."

The golden haired man spiraled on his heel, returning to face the quivering tense singer on the floor. "I am your Angel of Music."

Jonathan gulped heavily, twitching as Dio stepped closer.

"I am the Angel behind this monstrous infection," he whispered hauntingly, "I burn in hell and yearn for the heaven that only you can grant me."

Jonathan shook his head, fluttering his curls of brown hair.

"If only you hadn't touched me," Dio sneered, baring his fangs. "Those who see this repulsive carcass of flesh that is mine must atone for their selfishness."

The brunet's breath hitched, frightful of whatever may come next. He shuffled himself backwards on the ground, guarding his throat.

"I should shatter your ankles so you cannot run. Rip your eyes from their sockets so you won't have to fear this beast."

Jonathan pulled his legs closer to his chest, mortified at the vile words Dio easily spoke. A foul grin spread among Dio's face, eye narrowed into a red crescent.

"I'll drain you dry," he hissed, "and corrupt you into a thoughtless rotting slave."

Jonathan blinked rapidly, tears glittering as they rolled down his face. He shook his head again, incapable of producing any sound.

"No?" Dio hummed, drawing his lips into a line. "I cannot let you go unpunished. You have displeased me."

The two stared at each other, Jonathan's jittery breathing being the only sound in the lair besides a faint trickle of water. His mind was a blizzard of alarm, terror and confusion.

For years, the Angel was his source of comfort. A being he could trust, someone who would do no harm. He was security, he was love, he was father's gift.

Now the Angel is danger. No - Dio is danger. Dio is fear. Dio is immoral evil. No Angel would inflict pain or suffering to anyone.

Dio would kill him.

The man clicked his tongue. "Your disobedience is caused by that friend of yours, isn't it? Erina only speaks in fear of me. It's worn off on you; I was right."

Jonathan said nothing, remembering the fear in his friend's voice that warned him of the Phantom. He regretted not listening to her, how foolish he was to not think to connect the Angel to the rumored Phantom.

"No," Dio breathed, lips curling into a snarl. "It is that wormy fool, that sickly man that looks and speaks to you in such a tone he does not deserve to. Speedwagon, he is the one making you disobey me. I should have killed him from the beginning!" He raised his voice in vexation, slamming a fist on the ground.

Jonathan moved himself backwards again at the thud, biting his lip to hold back more tears that welled in his eyes.

"He distracts you from your priorities, from me. You should only think about me, Jonathan," Dio stepped closer, crouching down to Jonathan's eye level. "I've already marked and claimed you."

Now Jonathan wanted to wake up. This was just a nightmare, this can't be real. The real Angel would awake him with his music. The real Angel would calm him, hold him, not dare to burn his skin with blood.

His suspicions were correct. This can't be the Angel that his father promised to send. He wanted run back, to flee to his friends, return to the real comforts he'd neglected just for a false Angel that attempted to kill him.

Dio stared into Jonathan's glossy eyes, a sigh leaving his lips as he turned his sight to the ground.

Jonathan began to understand how important the mask was to Dio. That under that calm and alluring charm, there is a ravenous devil with a temper of hell.

He gulped down the lump in his throat, calming his breathing and thumping heartbeat. He gradually reached for the mask that had fell beside him, grabbing it and holding it out in front of Dio.

The man gently took it, turning his back to Jonathan to adjust the stone mask back on his face. The ruby eye returned to burn holes into him, heating his bones with terror.

"I will let you off this once," Dio spoke, his voice softer but still firm. "But next time, there shall be a punishment ready for your next misbehavior."

The musician stood up and straightened. He offered a hand to Jonathan, who hesitated before taking hold. Lifted from the ground, the young man took a few cautious steps backwards.

"Come, I have treatment over here. I'll clean the mess on the floor," Dio murmured, looking at the shattered glass peppering his floors. "You are to return to the opera house when I am finished. Those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you."

As the Phantom walked away to gather equipment to sweep up the broken vase and mirror, Jonathan could only nod his head in silence and go as well to tend to his bleeding throat.

Chapter Text

Dawn stirred crisp and clear, bringing with it singing blackbirds at the notice of the rising sun. And though Saturdays are graced weekends of relaxation, poor aging Joseph Joestar found himself trapped under a pile of papers.

In the second floor office room of darkwood and two shuttered windows, he sat at a wide desk in a wooden chair cushioned with red fabric. His brows were furrowed while sorting through thick papers, and his forehead glistened in the light from sweat.

Why would such a profiting man be so tense?

The mysterious disappearance of their newest and greatest addition, Jonathan Joestar.

It had just happened overnight, reported by two young adults, that the man had shockingly gone missing with not a single trace left behind.

The occurrence left cops baffled and detectives mystified. No overnight search group could grasp a single clue to his whereabouts.

First Kars had ditched Hannibal and was replaced by Jonathan; only for him to cut and run as well.

As a manager of the opera house, Joseph had to find yet another substitute, possibly better than the two combined, and trials took ages to confirm a single one.

The old Joseph scornfully eyes a newspaper article to the side of his desk before picking it up to examine.

The report of the incident already had stories shooting out from news industries. It wasn't a surprise since Jonathan had become such a big hit so quickly.

Big bold letters on a column that read alarming titles such as "Mystery of Soprano's Flight" would catch anyone's eye, especially those who'd attended Jonathan's first star role.

Though a favored singer had disappeared, Joseph thought, any publicity is good publicity. With a scandal, you're sure to have a hit.

As he lowered the paper aside, footsteps rattled in the hallway outside of the office's double doors. They swung open with a creak, and in stormed Joseph's companion.

"Damn it all, Monsieur Joestar!" Polnareff scowled, shutting the doors behind him. "Will every marketable cast walk out on us? This is damnable!"

"You're too loud!" Joseph stood from his chair. "It's practically free publicity, Jean!"

"But, monsieur, we have no cast!" Polnareff gawked at the other's slight calmness. "How could this be better?"

"Polnareff, have you ever seen such a queue before? We're gaining fame by the second," the Englishman collected the stack of papers on his desk. As he reached to store them away, two envelopes slipped out quietly back onto the desk. Joseph quirked a brow at the sight.

"Ah, that's right, we've received letters specifically for us," the bearded man recalled as he put away the newspapers. Polnareff strode across the room and stood in front of the office desk and was handed one of the envelopes. "Read yours to me, will you?"

"Oui oui," Polnareff muttered under his breath, taking a moment to study the intricate skull shaped seal. He took out the paper inside, clearing his throat.

"It reads, 'Dear Jean, what a charming gala! Jonathan enjoyed a great success. We were hardly bereft when Kars left - otherwise, the chorus was enchanting, but the dancing was a lamentable mess.'"

"Madame Elizabeth took care of that," Joseph remarked before unfolding his letter.

"'Dear Joseph, my salary has not been paid. Send it care of the Ghost by return of post. P.T.O'"-he flipped the note over-"'No one likes a debtor, so my orders are to be obeyed.'"

Joseph rolled his eyes as he folded the paper back up the wrong way. "Salary? Who would have the gall to send this?"

"Someone with a puerile brain," Polnareff scoffed, sticking out his bottom lip in disbelief as he reread his received note. He doubled over to the signature, inspecting it. "Who sent yours, monsieur?"

"A man who goes by 'O.G'," Joseph sneered, tossing the weakly folded letter onto the desk.

"Mine as well! Who the hell is he?" The wheels in Polnareff's brains turned, pondering as to what he could connect the signature to. Joseph leaned against the office desk, tapping a finger as he reflected.

"'O.G'," he muttered quietly, "where have we heard that name before?"

A few moments passed before it clicked, truly sharing a single brain cell as they remembered. They looked at each other with eyes wide as saucers, gaping as they recalled their first introduction with Elizabeth.

"The Opera Ghost!" They exclaimed in unison, pointing fingers at each other.

Joseph snapped his fingers before curling it into a fist, swinging it softly. "Damn it all! The lady really wasn't joking. This isn't amusing at all - he's abusing our position!"

"Did he even write the play?" Polnareff glared, putting his note on the desk as well. "and he expects money!"

"He is clearly quite insane!" Joseph frowned, shaking his head with a temper.

As the manager reached to store the letters, quite famished for breakfast and completely over the Ghost, the double doors suddenly opened once more with a heavy push.

The two turn their heads, and in marched the Robert vicomte de Speedwagon in his iconic plum three piece suit and bowler hat. His caramel eyes were narrowed furiously, a frown smeared on his face.

"Where is he?" He asked the managers brusquely as the doors shut behind him.

"Monsieur Kars?" Polnareff queried.

"I mean Mr Joestar."

"Which one?"

"Jonathan Joestar. Where is he?"

"Well how should we know?" Joseph shrugged, staring at Speedwagon with stunned eyes at his sudden intrusion. "We don't have an answer. The Sûreté are doing everything they can!"

"You were up all night looking as well," Polnareff included.

"You must have an answer due to the note you sent me!" Speedwagon retorted.

"A note from us? What nonsense is this?" Joseph gawked at the accusation, as to where Polnareff shook his head.

"He's not with you?" The vicomte glanced between the managers, cursing under his breath.

"Of course not!" The bearded manager repeated. "We haven't sent you any notes."

"We're in the dark as well, monsieur," Polnareff added.

"Let's not argue," Speedwagon heaved a sigh, disappointed that Jonathan was still missing. He brandished a folded paper from the pocket inside his coat. "This isn't a letter you wrote?"

He handed it off to Polnareff, who unfolded it and read the contents out loud.

"'Do not fear for Mr Joestar. The Angel of Music has him under his wing - make no attempt to see him again.'"

Tension settles in the room, chills going up the managers spines at the strange title. Speedwagon crossed his arms in a vexed manner.

"We didn't write this at all," Polnareff informed tensely.

"My God, what an odd note. I hope it means Jonathan Joestar," Joseph gave a nervous joking smile, running a hand through his grayed beard.

"Of course it does!" Speedwagon shook his head frustratedly. "If you didn't write this, then who did?"

Before the managers could answer, the wooden doors shoved open again. A towering purple man stomped in, looking every bit enraged.

"Where is he?" Kars growled. He donned a black fedora as well as a long coat with light grey trim and pants, hair contained in a dark grey headwrap. Thin curls of purple hair sprouted from the wrap at his forehead.

"Welcome back!" Polnareff nervously greeted, attempting to approach the singer with Joseph.

"Where's your precious patron?" Kars repeated, glaring down at the men with sharp eyes.

Kars was easily comparable to a giant as a human, being nearly seven feet tall without heels as he leered over everyone.

Speedwagon squeezed between the managers, looking at Kars' red eyes the least bit intimidated. "What is it now?"

"I have your silly letter," Kars rose one brow nastily, "one I find quite amusing from someone like you."

"I would send you nothing of the sort," Speedwagon glared.

"You didn't send it?" Joseph turned to the blond.

"Of course not!" Speedwagon raised his hands defensively.

"You dare to tell me you didn't send this letter?" Kars interrogated again, eyes narrowing into slits.

"And what could I have possibly sent?" Speedwagon snatched the letter Kars held out to him, brushing off the irritated look on the tall man's face. He took a deep breath before reading the neat handwriting inside.

"'Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered. Jonathan Joestar will be singing on your behalf tonight. Should you attempt to take his place, be prepared for a great misfortune.'"

Kars rolled his eyes at the name, an awkward silence hanging above them as Joseph and Polnareff exchanged brief stares.

"You think I sent you this?" Speedwagon posed crossly.

"Who else would try removing me from the spotlight?" Kars responded bluntly, placing a hand on his hip.

Speedwagon looked like he was about to bark Kars' head off, scrunching his face angrily. Polnareff quickly pulled the vicomte backward, stepping into his spot.

"The man sends too many notes. What a pain," the Frenchman spoke as Joseph moved to stand next to him. "Monsieur, the Joestar is incomparable to you!"

"Correct!" Joseph coughed, dismissing a dirty look from Speedwagon. "All we've heard since this morning is his name."

Kars curled his lip suspiciously at the managers' sudden change. They turned him around and slowly lead him out of the office, Speedwagon following in silent anger.

A few steps out of the office, two figures ahead stop the group in the hall. They were met with the ballet dancers, Elizabeth and Erina who silenced the bickering for a few minutes.

"Jonathan Joestar has returned," Elizabeth informs, hands folded politely at her waist.

"I trust his midnight oil is well and truly burned?" Polnareff drily states, jumping when Speedwagon kicked him harshly in the ankle.

"Where is he now?" Joseph asks, lightly pushing the silver Frenchman aside.

"I thought it best he is to be alone," the instructor answers calmly.

"He needed rest," Erina adds.

"Where was he?"

"That information is disclosed, but he is safe and well."

Speedwagon glanced anxiously at Erina, letting himself relax when she returned a small reassuring nod.

He stepped in front of the managers and Kars, lowering his bowler hat respectfully. "May I see him?"

"No monsieur, he will see no one at this time." Elizabeth held out a hand in front of her, tilting her head downwards.

Kars stepped forward. "Is he to sing tonight?"

"Here; I have a note." The brunette freed a note from her dress pocket, offering it forward. The four groaned annoyedly at having to read yet another note that was only to criticize or bring bad news.

"Let me see it!" They clamored simultaneously. Joseph quickly snatched it with a swift hand, squinting his eyes. "Please."

The old man opened it quickly, trying not to squirm as everyone leaned in closely.

"'Gentlemen, I have now sent you several notes detailing how my theatre is to be run. I shall give you one final chance. Jonathan Joestar has returned to you, and in the new production of Il Muto, you shall put him in the role of the Count. You will therefore cast Kars as the Page Woman.

"'The role which Mr Joestar plays calls for charm and appeal; the role of the Page Woman is silent, which makes my casting quite ideal. I will watch from my normal seat in Box Five; should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant. O.G.'"

Kars immediately snatched the letter when Joseph finished, scowling as he started to violently rip it up. Everyone gaped at the sudden notion, stuck to watch in shock.

"As if I will play as a woman with no lines!" He jeered sharply. "Damn that Joestar brat!"

"Watch your tongue," Speedwagon snapped.

"Monsieur, s'il vous plait!" Polnareff gasped, trying to collect the mess of scattered pieces of paper.

"This is absurd!" Joseph shouted.

"I know who sent this!" Kars dusted his hands, turning around on his heel. He pointed a ringed accusing finger at Speedwagon, sneering; "The vicomte; his lover!"

Speedwagon's jaw dropped, astonished at the words Kars spat at him. Though he was just as hotheaded, so he glared back at the man.

"Me? Indeed!" The blond retaliated ironically.

"Signore, please!" Joseph huffed, lowering Kars' arm. The taller man shot a vile glare at him.

"No, you have betrayed me!" Kars spat, turning back around and storming down the hall. The managers scurried after, attempting to persuade the angry diva.

"These letters are a joke," Joseph assured desperately.

"This changes nothing! You are our star," Polnareff continued.

Kars had more public recognition and fame; if the managers could get him back, it would be better for their house's image and reputation.

They swerved downward into the opera house's entrance, rushing down the grand staircase. Servants quickly jumped out of Kars' way, moving their cleaning equipment.

Kars stopped at the big double doors and pushed them open, ignoring the managers' pleading.

He was met with a huge crowd, squirming forward and cheering. Kars' frown quickly changed, beaming at the sea of smiles ahead of him.

Kars froze before backing up inside, red eyes rounded as he felt like he was just slapped in the face. The crowd wasn't cheering for him; they awaited a certain Joestar.

He was the famous singer in this opera house. Not Jonathan! Why wasn't he being given these cheers? How could he have been surpassed so easily?

He shut the doors slowly, tuning out the crowd, and kept his hands on the wooden pieces dramatically with his head leaning down getting lost in his own swarm of thoughts.

In just one night, he was outclassed. How could he have been thrown out the doors of luxurious popularity in just one night?

"Signore," Joseph approached quietly, "the public needs you."

"We need you too," Polnareff folded his hands.

Kars eventually straightened up, wordless as he fixed his fedora. Without turning, he growled, unassuaged, "Would you not rather have your precious little ingénue?"

"Of course not," the managers shook their head together, adopting their most persuasive attitudes. "the world wants you."

Kars let himself be turned around by the managers gentle hands, a slight smirk quirking his lip.

"You will play the lead," Polnareff confirmed, watching satisfaction manifest in Kars' eyes.

He looked at his bearded companion then nodded their heads together.

"Jonathan Joestar will be playing the Page Woman - the silent role!"

Chapter Text

Speedwagon watched the three men disappear at the end of the corridor. He looked back at Elizabeth and Erina uneasily, arms limp at his sides in defeat.

The note he had mysteriously received consisted of the bizarre "Angel of Music" to retain Jonathan, and he was to never see him again.

And just before Jonathan had disappeared last night, he'd spoken of the same name.

It all felt too surreal, leaving Speedwagon trapped in confusion that Jonathan had fled from his arms so suddenly.

"What fools to have flouted his warnings," Elizabeth suddenly whispered, brows pinched worriedly. She took hold of Erina's hand, turning to the hall. "We have no choice but to rehearse. Farewell, monsieur."

"I can't see him?" Speedwagon questioned again, sickening worry pumping his heartbeat.

"We're to rehearse," Elizabeth curtly answered without stopping her feet. "You may see him tonight."

Speedwagon's eyes trailed on their retreating backs helplessly as they made their way down the hall.

Something didn't seem right. The puzzle was right in front of him, but where were the pieces?

His mouth opened and he asked;

"Madame, you know what happened to Jonathan, don't you?"

That caused the instructor to stop in her tracks, to which Erina gazed up at her in silent surprise.

A few moments of passed with Speedwagon anticipating his answer before Elizabeth exhaled heavily, shakily squeezing the other lady's hand.

"Good day, monsieur." She muttered, resuming her steps and walking down the corridor with Erina, leaving Speedwagon speechlessly baffled.

It was just an hour before the show. The summer sun began to set, and the crowds began to make their way into the opera house for tonight's performance of Il Muto.

The backstage crew began to set the stage hastily yet neatly, assisting with ropes guiding down the backdrops and heavy props behind the waterfall of velvet curtains.

Josuke and Okuyasu were aided their frilly vivid costumes on, poking fun at each other's appearances. Gyro was paired with them as well, complaining about the itchy discomforts in his suit.

Erina and Jonathan parted from the ballet batch and onto the fronts in their own stage array, making last minute verifications on each other to conclude there wouldn't be a costume failure.

Jonathan had to request special tailoring on the gown, whereas to hide the marks in his neck, careful not to let anyone suspect his strange entreaty.

The younger Joseph strode up a flight of stairs to help operate the upper stage enginery after kissing Suzi's hand good luck, rushing up to his own companions upstage.

Soon came the altered star of the show. Kars strutted in with blinding confidence and a smug grin. Esidisi followed not too far behind him, with Santana and Wamuu holding Kars' personal belongings and drinks.

Pleased with the new casting which the managers granted him, Kars paraded in the shiny garments of the Count.

The purple haired diva enjoyed the pleads from the opera managers to return to their rapport. It fed into his ego, though wanting to drag out the compliments and persuasions.

The lights of the stage belonged to the prima donna - every fiery cheer and all the applause motivated them to pursue flaunts and fame.

Besides the fact that Kars desired all the flashing lights and whistles from the crowds, he fancied the need to regain his lost popularity from his last show.

Jonathan had gained fame from Hannibal, pushing Kars from the limelight he loved, whether intentional or not.

Kars practically fainted from the news, and plotted with Esidisi to gain back his spot in the ranks.

The envious celebrity came up with a scandalous lie, planting its roots in the brains of anyone who lent their ears.

He falsely stated to the managers that Speedwagon hid behind the title of the "Opera Ghost" to get his supposed soubrette in the leading roles.

Of course, nobody took him seriously except the incautious gray managers. They couldn't really fire Speedwagon since he funded their arts, so it was best to ignore and let Kars play the lead.

Tonight Kars would triumphantly flaunt his role as the Count and make the vicomte and his lover bow.

And as our prima donna took the stage listening to the chatters of the audience from behind the curtains, deep below where the light will never reach, the Phantom of the labyrinth seethed at their rebuttals and claims of war by dismissing his demands.

The warnings they chose to ignore would occur tonight, as the hunger for bloodshed evinced in his body with the anger from their elected opposition.

Chapter Text

The overture began with a song of strings, woodwind, and hearty brass. The audience's whispering began to subdue, turning their attention to the hidden stage.

The managers and Speedwagon quietly shuffled through the entrance to the seats, making their way up to their boxes.

"Gentlemen, if you would care to take your seats," Speedwagon informed, "I shall be sitting in Box Five."

"Do you really think that'd be wise, monsieur?" Polnareff looked back, sharing a glance with Joseph.

"Well, it would appear there are no seats other than Box Five available," Speedwagon shrugged, picking his hat from his head and attending to his seat.

As the opening continued, the curtains are pulled to the sides to reveal an 18th century manor's bedroom. Wall props were grandeur and curvaceous, bright vivid colors painting perfect neoclassical baroque architecture. A pink intricate canopy bed sits center stage, veiled with drapes. A pink sofa stands closer to the front left of the stage.

In the room are two epicene workers; a hairdresser and a jeweler dressed in fine European attire. Hot Pants plays the hairdresser and Erina plays the jeweler.

An older man in pearly attire, the Count's confidante played by Gyro, stood to the opposite side next to two other men draped in green and blue - Okuyasu and Josuke, with their pompadours bejeweled.

With a transition from the overture, they began their performance.

"They say that this youth has set my Lord's heart aflame!" Gyro exclaimed to the two young fops beside him.

"Her Majesty would die of shock!" Josuke gaped dramatically, holding the side of his face with a gloved palm.

"Her Majesty is a laughing stock!" Okuyasu scoffed loudly, tilting his head.

"Should she suspect him, God protect him," the three harmonized together, shaking their heads, "this faithless monarch's bound for Hades..."

They rose their hands together, directing towards the bed. The lights and music dimmed, drawing eyes center stage. The curtains hung on the bed curled aside, revealing the Count, played by Kars, and Serafima the Page Woman, played by Jonathan - pretending to kiss behind a floral fan in Jonathan's fingers.

He closes the flamboyant fan, rising from the bed in-tune with Kars as they stand in front.

Kars wore a colonial styled red suit, splitting from a frilled white cravat and button-up. The ends of the coat ruffled out, making way for dandy yellow breeches and shiny black boots that curled at his knees. A black Artilleryman styled hat rested on his head to compliment a cane in one hand, plum hair streaming down his back.

Jonathan's costume consisted of greens, pinks, and whites, though hidden by a scarf covering most of his top and hefty velvet bundled at his waistband.

The recitative began with Kars making his way to the sofa, propping himself on it as the hairdresser and jeweler made fake measurements and pampered him in silence. Jonathan strolled beside the sofa and leaned against it, smiling.

"Serafima, your disguise is perfect!" Kars observed with a grin, rolling his cane with his palms. Sturdy tapping imitated a knock on a door; he and Jonathan turn to the right of the stage. "Why, who can this be?"

A makeshift door on the right of the stage opened, and in stepped Esidisi in a large pink evening dress, curled hair bundled and dotted with flowers. Makeup powdered his face, making him as snowy white as his hair, lips emulating a plush heart shape.

"Dear husband, admit your loving wife!" He cooed musically, batting dark lashes at the audience who chuckled. He lifted the profound skirts of his dress, making his way over. Kars and Jonathan jumped up, departing momentarily from each other.

Joseph nudged Polnareff above in their box, "Every seat sold!"

"Hardly any 'disaster beyond imagination'," Polnareff laughed with Joseph.

"My love, I am called to England with duty of culinary, and I must leave you with your new butler." Esidisi clarified the situation, amused as he brushed his own fan against Jonathan who pretended to clean parts beside the canopy bed. He turned a false glare to the chuckling crowd.

"The old hag is leaving!" Kars smiled broadly towards the audience.

Esidisi trotted back towards the fake door, reciting aside, "I suspect my groom is untrue to me. I shall not leave, but hide over here to observe him! Goodbye, my love!"

"Farewell, wife! Addio!" Kars purred, waving a hand.

"Yes, addio!" Esidisi waved back. He hid himself behind the makeshift entrance, visible to the viewers but not the other two.

With that, Jonathan strutted back center stage next to Kars, who tapped his cane. "Serafima - away with this pretense!"

The brunet threw his scarf aside and untied the bundles at his waistband, which uncurled into skirts of white trimmed in gold. Peach bustles were uncovered, rounding at his hips, taunting a green corset with puffed shoulders. The seated assemblage quickly applauded the transformation, the others onstage gasping at the scandalous reveal. Above, Speedwagon smiled to himself as he watched.

Kars placed a large pink sun hat atop Jonathan's brown curls. "You cannot speak, but kiss me in my wife's absence!" The man leaned in and they pretended to press lips.

"That poor hag makes me laugh!" Kars piped heartily warbling his laughter smoothly and pulled back, waltzing with the other as rehearsed. "Time I tried to get a better half!"

The chorus echoed his singing carols, dancing with each other while they performed. Kars glowed in the shine of the eyes on him, relishing the spotlight and his voice.

Esidisi shook a laced fist with a pout at the sight, gaining giggles from the audience again.

All except Jonathan chanted as one, prancing together whilst Esidisi watched shaking his head angrily. "Poor hag, she doesn't know; if she knew the truth, she'd never ever go-!"

"Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?"

The booming voice called furiously from nowhere, echoing off the rounded ceiling. Everyone halted in their tracks, gasping with jaws dropped at the sudden intrusion.

The orchestra died out as Rohan paused with a jump. Everyone stared above frightfully, going pale as they peered past the wide chandelier. Joseph and Polnareff shifted in their seats, growing nervous at the callout. Speedwagon glared upwards in confusion as well.

A figure stood at the roof's miniature balcony, which encircled the Michelangelo styled paintings in the ceiling where the chandelier hung from. It was just barely visible by the glowing chandelier's glittery glass lights and candles, a shoulder and a head poking out hauntingly.

Round eyes stared in horror at the figure - Jonathan felt himself grow cold at the sight, seeing the figure's mask glint down at them darkly.

"He's here; the Phantom of the Opera!" Erina gaped, the colors of her face drained in terror.

"It's him," Jonathan whispered, gulping at the thought of yesterday. Kars hid his bewilderment, stomping his cane and whipping his head back towards the young man.

"Your part is silent, little toad!" Kars sneered insultingly, finding a scapegoat in him. Jonathan glanced back at him, saying nothing.

"A toad, sire?" The voice snapped, its tone low yet threatening. "Perhaps it is you who are the toad..."

The crowd whispered uneasily to themselves as Kars cleared his throat, ignoring the intimidation, warming up briefly and took his place back into the spotlight.

"Mi scusi, tutti." Kars grinned unapologetically. "Maestro, let us restart, per favore."

Rohan nodded, resuming his leading baton and lit up the stage with the music. Joseph and Polnareff relaxed when they noticed the figure above had disappeared suddenly. The audience's nervous chatters dried up as they too calmed to watch.

"Serafima, away with this pretense!" Kars piped. "You cannot speak, but kiss me in my-"

A ghastly croak emitted from the performer, a hand quickly slapping over his mouth. A sinister and quiet chuckle evinced above where the figure had once been.

The crowd stares in stunned silence at the sound, as did the others on and backstage. Kars' cheeks burned red at the faint giggling in the seats. Rohan urged him to continue with a motion of his head.

"P-Poor hag, she makes me laugh," Kars tried again with wide confused eyes. He attempted to reach his crescendo, failing as more appalling croaks and squawks left his throat.

The crowd erupted into lively laughter, backstage cracking with hysterics at the sight. Esidisi and Wamuu called for him to get off the stage, yelling for Rohan to stop.

"Behold! He sings to bring down the chandelier!"

The disembodied voice taunted wickedly from above, haunting cackles mixing with the seated patrons. Said chandelier began to flicker, lights flashing and glass rustling against each other.

It drove Kars to scream from the embarrassment, tossing his cane and fleeing into into Esidisi's arms.

Joseph and Polnareff had run down from their box, calling for the curtains to close immediately as the audience snickered. The actors dashed out of view, with Erina pulling a startled Jonathan away.

"Ladies and g-gentlemen!" Joseph spoke, humiliation sizzling his skin. "We apologize for the inconvenience. The performance will continue in ten minutes time when the role of the Count will be sung by Jonathan Joestar!"

The chandelier began to still, lights glittering as it returned to its normal beaming state to which the managers breathed a sigh of relief at. The crowd applauded at the name.

"In the meantime," Polnareff improvised with a nervous smile, "we shall be giving you the ballet from Act Three of tonight's opera."

"What?" Rohan hissed from the orchestra pit, glaring at the two's change of plan.

"The ballet - now, please!" Polnareff waved his hands hurriedly at the musician.

The green conductor huffed and whispered to the orchestra, rushing them forward through their music sheets. The managers withdrew from the stage, making their way back into their box. Speedwagon nestled back into his own seat with a hesitant shrug, crossing his arms.

Rohan scowled to himself quietly and started up the new music. The curtains drew back open to a scene of scrambling workers.

The ballet group as well as Erina had quickly transitioned into white leotards with frilly skirts. Stage crew rushed to replace the props onstage all the while dodging the dancers.

Elizabeth guided Jonathan to the dressing room with the costume of the Count that Kars had dismissed.

Soon the stage calmed with the organized ballet, gracefully twirling and hopping with circular swings of arms and legs which the orchestra beautifully complimented.

The younger devilish Joseph Joestar watched from above in the upper stage from the wooden floorboards held by sturdy rope, eyes locked on a particular elegant ballet girl.

He watched Suzi's lovely movements and the swish of her costume's elements. Caesar leaned beside him, looking down as well.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Joseph nudged the Italian with his elbow playfully.

"Do your job," Caesar rolled his eyes, coughing to mask a chuckle at the other's dreamish tone.

Joseph watched Caesar stride to a small gathering of other crew members from the corner of his eye, watching the performance and guiding the spotlights.

He dragged a gloved hand across the rope rails before letting it fall to his side as he sauntered down the boards, smiling to himself at the occurrence of Kars magically turning into a toad.

Rounding the sides of the upper left of the stage, he heard a strange creaking from the shadows. Curiously, he peered into the darkness, but found no one there.

Joseph shrugged it off, thinking nothing of it. He looped back around to continue his aimless wandering, already bored and wishing another silly little mess-up would happen.

A dark outline in his peripheral vision set Joseph off, adding to more creaking of the floorboards. He whipped back around, goosebumps dancing up his arms and the back of his neck.

He felt the temperature around him drop, widening his eyes in horror.

A man loomed over Joseph, glowering red eyes chilling the blood running through him. Joseph stared into an ominous and unwelcoming expression, partially hidden by a gray mask.

Joseph felt the air inside him leave, the petrifying bloodthirsty glare of Dio sending him into a cold sweat.

He stumbled, turning back around to run away. The floorboards suddenly felt miles long, stretching out into holes of darkness.

Dio appeared again in front of him, manifesting from the shadows of the operating machinery. Joseph skidded for a halt, the adrenaline keeping him on his toes.

He had no time to process unfathomable speed. The music from below became a blurry static, eyes wild as all he could do was run.

On the opposite floorboard, Dio reappeared again, a cloak of crimson tailing behind him. Joseph gritted his teeth, eyes locking on him.

Dio shadowed his footsteps, trying to anticipate where Joseph would go next, as Joseph did the same.

Abruptly, Joseph scampered forward, trying to pick up speed to escape his impending demise. Dio jumped up, climbing the ropes and concealing his presence within the shadows.

The mirroring footsteps disappearance caught Joseph off guard. He slowed his pace, searching the floorings in bewilderment.

In a descent from above with inhumane speed, Dio landed an armlength away from Joseph, fixating his deathly glare back onto the Englishman.

Joseph gulped hard, panic scrambling his thoughts and jumbling his movements. He swiveled back around and bounded a few steps before losing his footing against the wooden board beneath him.

The clicking of footsteps grew closer. Joseph dared to whimper, trying to drag himself across the floors.

Dio grew hungrier with each step he took, hunting for the prey ahead. From beneath his crimson cloak, Dio readied the hangman's knot.

Joseph grunted as a foot jabbed into his back, locking him in place. He thrust his fists up, protecting his head, but it was too late.

The slip was already on, tightening around his throat. His airways closed, and Joseph began to choke; clawing at the rope desperately.

Dio bore no remorse for him, and an evil smile spread across his face as he watched Joseph suffocate and his movements slow. Joseph's face paled, eyes rolling back as the creeping darkness took over.

Joseph was tossed over the wooden planks, hanging limp from the intertwining ropes of his own noose of death and the floorboards with a foul snap.

The audience screamed in horror, some jumping from their seats or shielding their eyes. The dancers on stage shrieked and flocked away, staring at the body with dread.

The orchestra died out, shouting as well to the sight of Joseph's red face and bloody purpled fingers. The ropes loosened and broke apart, causing Joseph to crumple down center stage.

An evil barbaric cackle escaped from Dio, throwing his head back as he laughed at the horrified screams and the exhilaration from his bloodlust.

The ballet girls cried and sprang away. Caesar leaped from the the side towards Joseph's disheveled body, pulling him into his arms and shaking him. Smokey jumped at his side, Jotaro and Holly following close behind their unresponsive friend.

"Get help!" Caesar pleaded aloud to anyone, trying to pry off the noose off of Joseph.

People flooded the stage, still clamoring with chilling wails and cries. The managers ran down, asking for calmness which nobody listened to.

Speedwagon exited his box, making his way down to the stage. He dodged frantic crew members, pushing through fleeing bundles of people.

He scouted the backstage, twisting his head around when a familiar brunet grabbed his hand.

"Jonathan!" Speedwagon huffed, glancing at the panicky figures behind them. "Are you alright? Let's get-"

"You aren't safe here," Jonathan squeezed his hand, tugging slightly. "To the rooftop - you'll be safe there!"

Jonathan lead the vicomte away from the shrieks on the stage, retreating to the opera house's rooftop with a figure pursuing them from the shadows.

Chapter Text

Jonathan leads Speedwagon through the labyrinthine backstage of wooden corridors and workshops. He hadn't finished changing into the costume of the Count entirely; missing the red coat and left with the white vest and yellow breeches. He'd quickly thrown on a cloak of dark sea green before finding the other.

"Safe from who, exactly?" Speedwagon questioned, glancing back at the hectic stages that began to fade as they trudged farther away.

"He'll kill you," Jonathan answered in a brittle tone, hesitating on speaking the name. "His eyes will find us there!"

"Whose?"

"The Phantom of the Opera!" The brunet looked back at Speedwagon with fearful eyes, catching him off guard.

"The Phantom?" He echoed puzzledly, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes, and if he has to kill a thousand men, he will - again and again!" Jonathan shook his head, biting his lip. "He'll kill me!"

"Don't say that," Speedwagon squeezed Jonathan's hand, insisting, "this Phantom is a fable; there is no such thing."

"I can never escape him!"

They scuttled into a wooden door after scampering up flights of stairs. Jonathan quickly ushered Speedwagon through it.

They had retreated to the rooftop of the opera house. Twilight drapes across the sky, few clouds speckled upon it. The half moon gives light to the floor.

A statue stands tall in the middle, a recreation of "La Victoire Ailee", and moonlight illuminates its chisels and shapes.

Speedwagon waits as he watches Jonathan shut the door hurriedly and saunter down the steps.

"Jonathan?" The vicomte whispers, unnerved at Jonathan's shaken tone.

"Please believe me, Robert," Jonathan pleads, clutching his hands close to his chest. "I've seen him - I've been there. I've been to his world of unending night. A realm of darkness."

He bore a grim expression, tears glossing his eyes. Speedwagon looked with worry, quieting.

"I can never take back what happened that night," Jonathan murmurs, lowering his gaze to the ground and shutting his eyes. "That night..."

He pauses, recollecting his thoughts from the journey deep down below. With his inner eye he sees Dio's infuriated eyes and the distortion of his face and words. His chest feels heavy at the thought.

He is left haunted by the sinister threats and the consequences of his own doing. Whatever inflictions Dio taunted him with, he was confused by; and he did not want to find out their true meanings.

But he does remember the benevolent calm before the storm. The ghost of gentle cold hands guiding him into a dreamlike candled world that he only ever fantasized at night.

And at night, where Jonathan was sung to, sweet tender music had warmed him through harsh winters.

His mind is foggy and utterly horrified that this promised Angel was likely the cause of the death of Joseph - he had heard that menacing laughter.

Blindly, Jonathan gently caresses one hand over his throat, feeling the tiny bumps in his collar with his fingertips.

He reopens his eyes, sucking in a deep breath.

"But what scares me the most, is that even now I still feel compassion for him," Jonathan said softly, lifting his chin as he began to linger across the rooftop. "Even in that darkness, there was a pure light. There was... love."

Speedwagon followed Jonathan's walking figure, listening though baffled.

Jonathan stops, gazing down at the glitters of Paris below. Shivery hands crept mindlessly up his arms, grasping onto his shoulders.

"There was love in his eyes over sadness and anger," he breathes gingerly, squinting his eyes. "It was adoration."

Silence falls upon the two. Jonathan's thoughts are a jumble of internal conflict about Dio, unsure of what he could possibly do.

Speedwagon stared with pinched brows, sympathy growing in caramel eyes. He'd never seen this supposed "Phantom", but at the shattered tone Jonathan spoke in, he knew he needed to be there for him.

He slowly strides for Jonathan, feeling troubled as he took notice to the quivers in his body.

"Jonathan, come here," he whispers, reaching to console the distraught Joestar.

Chapter Text

Speedwagon makes his way over, listening to the hushed weeps Jonathan tried to hide.

He keeps his movements slow and gentle, sweetly wrapping his arms around Jonathan from behind who scarcely flinches, but does not push him away.

The vicomte holds him for awhile, feeling each shudder passing through him. The gesture calms him down a bit as his tears began to dry.

Jonathan turns himself around, looking into Speedwagon's eyes kindly.

Wordlessly, Speedwagon shifts his arms and pulls the hood down from Jonathan's hair, letting his fingers brush against the curls.

He nearly forgets to breathe when Jonathan's face is illuminated.

In pale moonlight, his dark hair glittered a stunning shade of purple - or perhaps it was blue. Sun kissed skin appeared so soft and smooth. The longer he gazed, he watched it bloom pink, and eyes shyly looked away.

Jonathan had surely grown, as he was a few inches taller, and Speedwagon noticed how he could be so elegant and graceful though well-built and chiseled.

"It pains me to see you like this," Speedwagon broke the silence with a tender whisper, "I'm here for you. You don't need to be afraid."

Jonathan hides his face in Speedwagon's shoulder, who watches his trembling thin out while rubbing his back.

He breathes in his nostalgic and comforting aroma beneath the scent of the costume, and hadn't realized how much he'd missed it.

"I'm sorry," Jonathan suddenly murmurs sadly, pulling away from the caress. "You shouldn't have to see me like this. We've reunited from years of being apart, and I ruined-"

"That's not true and you know it," Speedwagon shakes his head, watching Jonathan step away with his head low. "You're wrong if you think I'd just leave you to deal with your sorrow alone."

Jonathan thumbs with the ribbon of his cloak, brows furrowed as he conflicts with himself once more.

"All I want is a world with no more night," he says hesitantly, lifting his head back up at the other. "I want liberty in the light again."

"Then I will deliver it," Speedwagon promises, watching Jonathan return closer to him. "I shall bring the daylight to dry your tears."

His heart flutters as a glow dances in Jonathan's eyes, and a faint smile sits cheerily on his lips.

"You give so much joy to others that you have forgotten yourself," The vicomte grazes his hands down Jonathan's arms, intertwining their fingers. "You graced my life with your light, so let me return the favor."

Speedwagon studies the cerulean tinted eyes and dark lashes that flickered in thought as Jonathan returned a small squeeze of their laced hands.

Years ago, he thought he'd never see these eyes again. No other pair could make his heartbeat deafening in his ears, or make his stomach churn in a good way.

He didn't want to part from Jonathan ever again.

"Your life is your own to live," Speedwagon says wholeheartedly. "But whatever it is you choose to do, where ever you decide to go... All I ask is to be a part of it."

"Do you really mean it, Robert?" Jonathan merrily grins, speaking in a shy whisper.

"I would never lie to you," the blond vows earnestly. "I want to be here always beside you, if you will let me."

Jonathan falls silent for a moment, but his smile never falters. He takes in the warm fondness in Speedwagon's hands, his eyes, and his words.

He sees that his touch is warm. It doesn't burn his skin, nor does it make him afraid.

Blindly they start to bring themselves closer until their noses barely touched. Their faces flush and neither could bring themselves to look away.

"Say you love me," Jonathan glances at the other's lips, bringing his arms around Speedwagon's neck.

Speedwagon fondly smiles wider, "I've always loved you."

Without another word, their lips meet for the first time beneath the summer moon. Jonathan curls his fingers in Speedwagon's hair, an aching buzz rippling in his ribs.

They keep their eyes closed as both melt into the kiss, feeling the world around them disappear.

At that moment, Speedwagon lifts Jonathan (to some degree) from the ground, twirling him in his arms as they danced across the rooftop.

Jonathan lets his hands roam around the vicomte's hair as they spun, brushing his thumbs softly against the man's slight stubble. He couldn't stop smiling even if he wanted to.

A sense of sunshine washes throughout his body with each soft graze of their lips. He feels safe and truly loved.

The two pull back as they lose their breaths, sinking into each other's glowing eyes once more.

"You can still do that?" Jonathan laughs, bashfully glancing at the other's arms practically swaddling him.

"I dreamt of doing it again since we were children," Speedwagon smiles. "And I'll do it however many times you want me to."

Jonathan beams with another giggle, face feeling tingly as he bravely plants a delicate kiss to the bridge Speedwagon's nose.

"And I love you too," Jonathan breathes endearingly, holding cherry-red cheeks gingerly.

He catches his lips again in a gentle manner, eyes shutting as he took in every loving kiss that both had craved for for so long.

Jonathan hears music in his head, soft and one he'd never heard before, and this time he eagerly welcomes it.

Chapter Text

Jonathan pulls his head back, falling into more blissful laughter as he twirled with Speedwagon. He withdraws from his arms, catching his hands in the process.

"Goodness, I've forgotten about the show," Jonathan gasps, backing towards the rooftop's door. "I must go. Wait for me after, Robert!"

"Of course. I love you," Speedwagon smiles, spellbound eyes beaming.

Jonathan stares again for a moment, feeling his heartbeat start to quicken again at the warmth of his hands with his. He steps closer shyly.

"May we finish that supper?" The brunet asks, curling his fingers.

"I'll wait for you by the door after your performance," Speedwagon promises, nodding his head.

Jonathan stirs with a smile, leaning to kiss the vicomte again, and keeps his eyes open this time. An excited tingle dances up his skin, stomach twisting with joy at the thought that a life with Speedwagon waited ahead for him - one he could share with his beloved childhood sweetheart.

Slowly the young man carries Speedwagon's hands and leads him towards the door, disappearing with him through it.

The door shuts, and the rooftop falls silent.

From the darkness of the towering statue, a silhouette grows from its shadows.

As silent as a grave, it emerges from the murky black and into the glittering moonlight.

A man is revealed, with an expression so despairing and shattered, one that was foreign to even him.

Dio glides steadily across the rooftop, standing where the two had once been. He listens to the ghosts of their laughter, narrowing his eyes in confusion.

A crestfallen frown pulls the corners of colorless lips, staring ahead. Inside him, he could feel something shaping; molding into an emotion he had never experienced before.

It was painful. It wrenched and tore at the very muscles in his heart. He bites down at the insides of his mouth, even as blood stings his tongue. He's confused, lost to the horrific agony inside his breast that he couldn't interpret. Dio despised what he couldn't understand.

All his music, his creations, the art that he had forever sworn to assemble only for him, were ripped apart and left the scraps to disperse with the wind. The notes in his melodies became distorted, developing into a fiery blaze that ate up every last exhilarating loving tune.

Dio promised, and he promised, so why has he gone to the scorching light?

He unravels and lets out a shaky sob, bringing quivering hands to his aching head as he falls to his knees. He desperately clings to the last pureness left inside of him, feeling it wither and turn to ash.

But that sadness changes into anger as quickly as it had come. Dio grits his teeth, clawing at his skin.

And then it hits him.

This throbbing agony inside him was heartbreak. He had vowed centuries ago to never touch this blazing feeling again, that Jonathan would never let him feel it again, and yet Jonathan was the one that had brought it to him.

The Phantom lowers his hands from his face, curling them into vengeful fists. He glares up at the sunless sky above and casts his fury into the night, setting a resentful storm to the clouds and to Heaven if he could.

Dio abandons the rest of his humanity that he had sworn to keep for the one that could redeem it as he did the last kindness in his blackening heart.

And as he projects his demonizing fury above, the singing actors onstage smiled to their praising audience with roaring joyous applaud.

They cheered as Jonathan emerges in the costume of the dashing Count, skipping centerstage to pose for the delighted encore. He grins merrily, unbeknownst to the wrath Dio sends above.

But Dio is sure to make Jonathan aware. The chandelier begins to spark, shivering as lights began to burst and bulbs shatter.

The audience scream in shock, as do the actors beside Jonathan, covering their heads at the sight of the bejeweled beauty above breaking into pieces which rained down. They run offstage, but Jonathan does not.

He stays glued in place, staring in horror at the chandelier that shrieked and demolished in front him.

Jonathan received the bitter message, whether he wanted it or not, that Dio would not let him escape so easily.

Chapter Text

Splashes of gold and white sparkle in the midnight sky. Crackling and whistling, fireworks mark the night of the new year, 1889.

Six long and quiet months have passed, and for the New Years' celebration, Joseph and Polnareff hosted a masked ball at the opera house.

Crowds in costume flock the entrances and the outside chattering lively. The vigorous fireworks above pave way for the music inside.

The house's managers approach the entrance in their own flashy robes and masks, sharing early champagne.

"Monsieur Joestar! Pleasure to see you tonight," Polnareff greets, flaunting his silver knight's costume.

"You as well! What a splendid party!" Joseph responds cheerily, looking around at all the other unique outfits.

"What a great way to start a bright new year!"

They raise their glasses together with more bubbly laughter before strutting into the lobby.

An ocean of glittery bright costumes meet their eyes. They parade across the marble floors and down the grandeur stairs. An orchestra just above it illustrates everyone's dancing and fills the room.

They spot merry-go-rounds of mauve and puce, counting blues and snow whites blooming in between.

Grinning yellows prance within the smiling crowds and unfold in flashes of spinning reds. Dancers celebrate in mix-matched rainbows, marching throughout the corridors and circling back to the foyer.

Masks of all different kinds shape out faces that disappear and reappear like ghosts, with never a frown below.

Entering from the grand staircase comes a beaming ensemble of the populars that have rejoiced with the managers. Elizabeth, Erina, Kars, and Esidisi watch the spectacles in the room.

"What a night!" Elizabeth exclaims. Her costume is smooth with a taste of royal in a sleek black dress and a red laced shawl. Her hair is pinned and braided up with a jeweled crown. She bears no mask.

"I've never seen it so crowded before," Erina looks around in awe. Gowned in a sky blue dress wrapped over in bustle with bows and ribbons, her costume reflects the youth of a princess.

"Doesn't it make you happy?" Polnareff grins with a taste of his drink.

"We can dance with no ghost to fear," Kars laughs. He bobs his head to the excellency of the music in a crow's mask. Black feathers poke out from almost every angle out of a wine-purple tailcoat. His vest is bedazzled with pearls.

"Six gracious months of no Opera Ghost!" Esidisi sighs in relief. A plain black mask covers his face, but a crown of gold extends above. Colorful beads dangle from glittery shoulder pads beneath a suit of green and purple. A stylized sun glows from his top.

"Here's a toast to a prosperous year!" Joseph suggests, excitedly holding out his glass.

The others join in, clinking their drinks and taking a hearty gulp.

"And may our new chandelier's splendor never fade," Elizabeth freely breathes, to which the rest agree happily as they descend the stairs.

In the left corridor arrives a fashionably late couple, Jonathan and Speedwagon, wearing their own captivating attire.

Jonathan's guise glimmers a blue to pink ombre tailcoat with a miniature V-neck, buttoned with white stars and long frills extending from the sleeves. Roses pop from the suit's pockets. He dons a silver mask edged in matching stars and a crescent moon in the middle in his hand.

Speedwagon's costume is a stylish Hussar Soldier's uniform of black and sparkling gold, strapped with a false shiny sword. His long hair is pulled back into a clean ponytail with a black ribbon.

As they make their way up the corridor, Jonathan is admiring a new acquisition wrapped around his neck. Attached to a chain is a golden ring.

"I hope father is pleased," Jonathan smiles, glancing up from the ring. "I feel his joy from the heavens."

"I'm sure he is," Speedwagon agrees, "a ring as beautiful as your father's should go on your finger, not around your neck."

"I thought we had settled on keeping the engagement a secret."

The two pause at the entrance to the foyer, taking each other's hands.

Late last month, the two had gotten engaged - Jonathan insisted on using his father's gifted ring to express the hidden betrothal before anything loudly official. He was still afraid he would see the apparition of the Phantom, though six months have passed since and he hasn't heard a single trace.

"But why must it be? You're free, we don't have anything to hide." Speedwagon softly argues. "There is no crime in being engaged."

"Let's not fight... I promise you will understand in time." Jonathan reassures, brushing his thumbs while quickly changing the subject. "Have you ever danced before?"

Speedwagon looks away in thought before shaking his head. He often declined invitations to galas, but couldn't bring himself to turn down Jonathan's puppy eyes. "Can't say I have."

"Been around half the world and has not danced before?" Jonathan teases lightheartedly. "That's alright, I can teach you."

Their arms link, and together they head into the waves of the waltzing circles. Jonathan takes the lead, guiding Speedwagon with a simple box step holding each other's arms.

Speedwagon quickly picks up the recurring moves and slowly becomes more sure of himself. They confidently whirl into pattern with the other colors of the parading floors.

The two are all smiles and pink, giggling whenever they step on each other's feet accidentally, happily gliding through the looping halls and back out.

They let go of each other and switch off, eyes lingering. Jonathan finds himself dancing the tango with Polnareff and Speedwagon boxes with Erina.

"Enjoying the party?" Polnareff asks, giving Jonathan an unrelenting spin.

"Of course!" Jonathan laughs, catching his breath. He tries not to dwell on Polnareff's gray mask.

They part as well when their dance section is over. Jonathan ends up with a stranger, also donning a haunting gray mask who give him force. Jittery, he goes partner to partner, but finds them all to be uncanny replicas of the Phantom.

Eventually, he is twirled back around into the rescuing hold of the familiar face of his fiancé. They whirl back together into the sea of dancing.

Looping back into the main area, the orchestra reaches its climax. With a twirl and a catch, they pause at the bottom of the grand staircase breathless from the excitement. Speedwagon dips Jonathan into a loving kiss, smiling through it.

The costumed attendees flock with synced dances leisurely down the stairs with the crescendo of the thundering music. Feet kick and hands flutter as they prance down the steps, laughter accommodating friends and strangers alike.

Jonathan and Speedwagon move to the side, holding hands as they watch the stunning performance.

At the height of the orchestra, a burst of smoke appears at the top of the staircase. It scatters sparks of ash and streams of bright light.

Dancers jump out of the way, shrieking and gasping at the loud crash of flame. The fiery fumes slowly die out with flashes.

Standing where the smoke disperses is a large figure of crimson satin wearing a large complimenting hat, followed by long hair as bright as gold. Pink feathers drape over shoulders. Where a face should be is a cracked mask, resembling the haunting image of a skull - Death's head. Two soulless voids serve as eyes.

The crowd quiets and moves out of the way as the man begins to take steps down the grandeur staircase.

The Phantom descends slowly, each step a thunderous drop into the marble.

"Why so silent, good messieurs?" Dio speaks, gravelly and intimidating, grinning beneath his skeleton façade. "You decided to throw a masked ball without inviting me... Did you really think I had left you for good?"

He stops after a handful of steps. He turns to face the shivering managers, recognized even through their obscure costumes.

"No matter. For you, I bring my finished score-"-The Phantom brandishes an enormous bound manuscript from his belt, tossing it to the gray men-"-Phantom Blood's Tragedy!"

The leather book is caught by Joseph, cowering with frightened eyes.

"The tale of how one man's failure leads to generations of bloodshed and tears..." Dio explains his opera quietly, before raising his voice and a finger. He scans the crowd with the long finger as he speaks, eating up the terrified faces around. "I advise you all to comply - my instructions should be clear. Remember, there are worse things than a shattered chandelier!"

He stops at a head of brown hair. Dio crooks his finger, beckoning the man to come forward.

Mesmerized, Jonathan obeys, ascending steadily up the staircase. When he comes close, they stare at each other for a quiet moment.

Then, Dio's hand flashes forward. He rips the golden ring straight from Jonathan's throat, clenching it in a fist in the air.

"Your chains are still mine - you belong to me!" He yells. Another flash of smoke and light erupts from the ground around his feet.

While the attendees scream and run away from the occurrence, the puffs of gray thin out. The red figure has vanished.

Chapter Text

To his dismay, Speedwagon lost Jonathan's silhouette to the flight of the crowds. Pushed away from the rails of the staircase, he catches a different head amongst the rest.

In the shadows, a woman watches with grim eyes, observing the dancers turning tail and rushing away from the scene. When she notices Speedwagon approaching, she turns away into the dark.

"Madame!" Speedwagon calls, maneuvering through flood of people. He rears close, but the woman keeps her back turned. "Madame Elizabeth!"

"Don't ask me monsieur, I know no more than anyone else," She blatantly insists.

"That's not true - you know something, don't you?" Speedwagon continues with his suspicions, discerning Elizabeth's raised shoulders and distant gaze.

"I don't know what I have seen!"

Speedwagon continues to pursue her, disappearing through a dead corridor where the candles have not been lit. The cries in the lobby have become a haunting buzz.

"Madame, for all our sakes," Speedwagon pleads. He pauses when it has become to dark for him to continue down the corridor.

The clicks of her costume's heels have disappeared. Elizabeth has stopped as well. He hears a shaky breath after a long and tense pause, then a whisk of a match. Elizabeth face lights up in the shadows, illuminated by a candelabrum grabbed from a gala table.

Lit by the twitching candles, her expression is cold, which wades a warning to he who trails her. She holds the man's determined gaze, contemplating her fear before giving in.

"Very well," Elizabeth sighs, eyes darting around. "But we cannot speak here. Come with me."

Speedwagon is lead to a formal sitting room on the third floor of the opera house. He takes a seat in a padded armchair while Elizabeth places the candelabrum on the decorated coffee table in the middle of the seats.

Elizabeth props herself into the opposing sofa after shutting the door. Her hands knit together nervously, keeping her gaze glued to the carpets.

"For this house's sakes, Madame, tell me what you know about him." Speedwagon requests. Elizabeth has been here the longest out of anyone. She must know at least something.

Elizabeth is silent at first. Her eyes are glued to the carpets and eyes narrowed in uncertainty but eventually yields with a harsh swallow.

"It was years ago," she begins the tale quietly. "I was a young girl, studying to be a ballerina, and watching the new fair in the city with my school. It was alive with tumblers, conjurors... human oddities."

She pauses, eyes glossy as she retraces the past. "And one of the acts - I shall never forget the sight - was a boy, locked in a cage. Bruised and bloodied, shackled to the ground. He was beaten for the entertainment of a show led by his own cruel father."

Speedwagon blinks in surprise, but nods for her to continue.

"When my peers and drunken strangers left, I did something I still am not sure I regret to this day," Elizabeth picks her head up solemnly. "I freed him from the cage and smuggled him across Paris to this opera house."

"Who was this man?" Speedwagon asks, mystified by her story.

"A freak of nature - more monster than man. He has become this Phantom."

"My God."

"And one rainy night, a few years later, he goes missing. A week passes and he returns to my bedside long past midnight with blood on his hands," Elizabeth recalls the dreadful image in her mind with a clench of teary eyes. "He had a run-in with the same fair, and slaughtered them all with his bare hands - including his own father. Something happened to him that night, monsieur. He was never the same since. He changed."

"Changed?" Speedwagon echoes curiously.

Elizabeth nods drearily. "His eyes used to be as bright as the sunny blue skies. When he returned, it'd become as red as the blood on his hands. He then sealed himself away to the cellars deep below the opera house, hiding from the light. The music in his life had died.

"Until the day I'd brought Jonathan to live here," The woman reminisces, a small smile forming on her lips. "The Phantom had taken an interest in him. I heard the dead music of the night spring to life!"

"Then you knew where Jonathan disappeared to last summer," Speedwagon queries with a glare. "You pretended to look with me."

"I had no other choice," Elizabeth professes, shamefully tilting her head. "The Phantom called for my aid. There's nothing else I can do. I already know too much."

"You pity a murderer," The vicomte whispers. "You've befriended this demon- this monster!"

"Please, monsieur, I am not your rival! I've gone too far in the darkness, I cannot turn back now," Elizabeth weeps, hiding her face in her palms miserably. "Nothing will stop him from getting what he wants. He's a genius in his murderous schemes, we stand no chance at all!"

"And what is it that he wants?" Speedwagon urges.

"He has told me he wants his music to be heard... Seen by one that does not repent him. The one you are now betrothed to."

"How did you-?"

"It was quite obvious."

Speedwagon nods and averts his eyes sheepishly. The room falls into silence as he takes in the new information.

He'd confirmed long ago the Phantom is this 'Angel of Music' who is somehow connected to the spirit of Jonathan's father. Was it possible this madman was using this title to trick Jonathan into his venomous comfort?

"Clearly, Madame, 'genius' has fallen into madness." The vicomte perceives, crossing his arms.

Elizabeth shakes her head, suddenly leaping from the sofa and staggering for the door.

"I have said too much tonight. And there have been too many accidents!" She cries, heading for the door while repeating under her breath, "too many!"

"Accidents?" Speedwagon jumps from his chair too, watching her depart from the room. "Madame!"

However, Elizabeth is already gone and out of the room, disappearing down the corridor and out of sight.

Chapter Text

It is the first day of the new year. January moves into the calendar, and the weather blooms cold and quietly. Joseph and Polnareff chat bitterly between each other in their office. On their desk is the stacked score from the Phantom during the ball, which Joseph flickers through with a glare.

"This score is ludicrous! Simply take a look Jean, this is preposterous," he scowls, shutting it rashly and sliding it towards Polnareff.

"A blessed release from the madman and he returns with more demands!" Polnareff rolls his eyes. At the look of Joseph's face, he doesn't bother to read it.

"And if we are to refuse, I don't think we could pay off another chandelier," the older man rubs his temples. "We have no choice than to listen to what he wants again..."

Under the score's previous spot reveals two familiar stamped envelopes. Joseph hesitantly takes the one designated to him, and gives an irritated Polnareff his.

"Dear Joseph," he clears his throat, "re my orchestrations; we need another first bassoon. Get a player with tone - and that third trombone must be removed! The man could not be deafer, so please hire one who can preferably play in tune!"

Polnareff stifles a snicker as he listens while unfolding his letter.

"Dear Polnareff, vis a vis my opera; some chorus members must be sacked. If you could, find out which has a sense of pitch. I've managed to assign a rather minor role to those who cannot act."

They look up at each other from their notes with unamused eyes before reciting the signature below with a frown - "Opera Ghost".

Through their open doors they see a pair approaching with heavy steps. Looking their way, the managers toss their letters aside.

In storms the diva Kars and Esidisi, who are fitted snugly in matching fur shawls and expensive coats which follow the latest Paris winter fashion in complimenting orange and purple.

"This whole affair is an outrage!" Kars shakes a copy of the score in a fist. "How dare they assign me to the chorus?"

"Now what's the matter, signore?" Joseph immediately asks.

"Have you seen the size of our parts?"

"It's an insult!" Esidisi fumes with a curl of his lip.

"Please understand, we can't control this," Polnareff coaxes an apologetic defense.

"I do not frolic in the backs of a stage!" Kars tosses the wrinkled paper into their trashcan. "The things I have to do for my art!"

"If you can call this... gibberish 'art'," Esidisi frowns.

Another pair of silhouettes appear in the hall draw near. Jonathan enters in navy blue, fitted in an intricate waistcoat and black trousers. Next to him is Speedwagon in a leather buttoned frock coat and a simple white blouse underneath.

"Ah, here's our little flower!" Kars sneers, crossing his arms to his furry chest.

"Welcome monsieur; quite the man of the hour!" Polnareff greets. He takes the score from the desk and hands it to Jonathan who opens it right away to read through the opera. Joseph moves next to him.

"You have secured the largest role in this 'Phantom Blood'," the old man explains, though puzzled as Jonathan looks unsettled.

"He doesn't have the voice for it," Kars remarks with slitted eyes.

"Monsieur, please," Polnareff raises his palm at the purple primadonna.

"It's obvious those two have been behind this!"

Speedwagon was going to intervene, but instead it is Jonathan who jumps to defend themselves.

"How dare you accuse us!" Jonathan closes the score, narrowing his eyes back at Kars. "This isn't our fault. I don't want any part of this plot!"

Kars doesn't the least bit convinced, but closes his mouth anyway and steps back.

Jonathan hands the score back to Polnareff, who stammers in shock. "You're stepping out?"

"But it appears we have no choice!" Joseph feebly persuades, "surely you remember what happened when we refused orders..."

"You have a duty monsieur!"

"I cannot sing it," Jonathan shakes his head, "duty or not."

Speedwagon pulls his fiancé gently away from the desperate managers, keeping a hand to his back.

"You don't have to sing, Jonathan. They can't make you." He reassures, shooting a sharp glare at the two men.

The two step aside as they hear one more person coming into the office. It is Elizabeth in her sharp black winter gown. Stopping at the doorway, she coldly ignores a recollecting stare from Speedwagon.

"Another note, messieurs," she presents the letter toward the group inside. Everyone groans at the sight. The managers simultaneously gesture with a nod for Elizabeth to read the contents inside.

All in the office await anxiously for the reading. Elizabeth draws the letter from the envelope, and begins to read the neat handwriting inside.

'Fondest greetings to you all. I've prepared a few instructions just before rehearsals start. Kars must be taught to act, not play his normal trick of strutting around the stage.'

Kars' jaw drops, averting his eyes with a frown.

'The role of the Vampire must lose some weight! It's not healthy for a man of Esidisi's age...'

Esidisi glowers, taken aback by the low insult.

'And my managers must learn that their place is in an office - not the arts!'

The two silver men slide back a step awkwardly at the callout. Elizabeth lastly turns to Jonathan, glimpsing up at his pale face as she recites the letter.

'As for Mr Jonathan Joestar... No doubt he'll do his best - it's true, his voice is good. He knows, though; should he wish to excel, he has much still to learn, if pride will let him return to his great teacher... Sincerely, your obedient friend, and Angel.'

Jonathan stares at the paper in Elizabeth's hand, bewildered as he could practically hear the disturbing taunts of the note reread in the Phantom's voice inside his mind. He comes to from the frightened daze and turns his head down.

"I can't," he murmurs, "I won't do it."

He turns to his fiancé, wanting to leave as the room is tense and silent with surprised eyes on him. Speedwagon takes hold of the brunet's hand, who has no intention of leaving the office quite yet.

"We have all been blind - and the answer is staring at us in the face!" The vicomte exclaims, suddenly bright with an idea. Jonathan pauses and is guided into a spare chair. The managers and Elizabeth follow, intrigued. "This could be the chance to ensnare our clever friend."

"We're listening," Joseph nods for him to continue.

"We'll play our Phantom's game; perform his work, but remember, we hold the ace," Speedwagon schemes with a scratch to his chin.

"What do you have in mind, monsieur le vicomte?" Polnareff queries.

"You see, if Mr Joestar sings, the Phantom is sure to attend..." The blond shares a glance with Jonathan's confused eyes. "And when he does, we set a trap."

"We make certain the doors are barred!" Joseph catches on to the plan with a grin.

"And surround the house with officers!" Polnareff snaps his fingers excitedly, carried along with the idea. "I like your thinking! The curtain falls, and his reign ends!"

The two managers laugh, stirred at the thought of catching the Phantom, praising Speedwagon for the genius proposal.

"This is madness!" Elizabeth suddenly bursts, cutting their joy short. "We don't stand a chance!"

"The tides will turn, madame!" Joseph assures.

"Monsieur believe me - there is no way of turning the tide against the Phantom!"

"Then help us," Speedwagon rounds on her, joined by the managers. "Instead of warning us, help us!"

"I wish I could-"

"Then could it be that you're on his side?" The vicomte condemns with a glare. Besides Jonathan, the rest of the men gasp, staring at the woman fearfully.

"She is his accomplice!" Esidisi and Kars point fingers, backing away from Elizabeth.

"Believe me, I intend no ill," Elizabeth defends desperately, "but messieurs, be careful - we have seen him kill!"

"We say he'll fall and fall he will," Polnareff declares to her.

The managers and Speedwagon then turn back to Jonathan, who sits in the chair looking ghostly and withdrawn. When his hand is grasped by Speedwagon, he jumps from thought.

"Please, Jonathan, if you sing, we'll lure the Phantom into a trap and kill him once and for all," Speedwagon begs.

"This will seal his fate!" Joseph supports, "If the plan succeeds, we'll all be free. This so-called 'angel' has to go!"

Their voices blur together and become a distortion. Jonathan could barely utter a reply, mind muddled and chest tight. Overwhelmed by the tumult encircling him and the conflict inside his head, the sopranist stands from his chair.

"I can't!" Jonathan cries, hiding his face as he flees from the group and out of the office. Speedwagon calls after him, all stunned as Jonathan vanishes down the hall.

The vicomte clenches a fist in frustration, starting for the door as well but stops to face the managers.

"I'll go talk to him. But this time, messieurs, we'll guarantee there will be a disaster waiting for the Phantom instead!" Speedwagon declares. The managers settle with the statement with an agreeing nod.

Then Speedwagon bolts out of the office to confer with his affrighted fiancé. Elizabeth follows him out.

Chapter Text

In just that short pause, Speedwagon had already lost Jonathan to the meanderings of the opera house. His first thought was to scout out the dormitories, but does not find him there. Nor does he find him in the chapel, his dressing room, or the auditorium.

Then it is when he runs into Erina in the gallery. She tells the vicomte she had previously seen him at the house's stables a while ago. Unfortunately, that meant Jonathan was possibly already gone. He'd wasted time beforehand. But that doesn't mean he couldn't catch up. Just where could he be going?

While removing his coat on his way to the lobby, Elizabeth confronts him.

"Monsieur, you will need this," she murmurs, and brings forth her hands. In her palms brandish a sword of fine iron, sheathed in a leather scabbard.

"What for?" Speedwagon glances up at her from the beautiful craft while he hangs his frock.

"You know very well."

He falls quiet, staring at the sword presented to him. He still didn't quite trust Elizabeth after her confession of aiding the Phantom, but the woman was thoughtful enough to concern herself for his safety. If he was going to run into the Phantom, he'd rather fill him with bullets, but didn't have time to fetch his gun. Speedwagon thanked her anyway and took the scabbard, hastily belting it on and scurrying off outside.

Arriving into the stables, he finds it ghostly silent and empty, save for the snorts of the horses in their wooden stalls and floors of hay. Snow has been shoveled aside on the wet rocky pavements. He approaches a blond man hunched on a stool who rubs his head. He is the usual coachman - Diego Brando.

"Pardon, but did you encounter Jonathan Joestar? Tall, brown hair, wearing blue?" Speedwagon asks.

Diego hums in thought before nodding. "I did. I was goin' to take him, but I must've passed out or somethin'." He pauses his itching fingers on his head to point to the carriage-less open area. "Someone else took the coach instead."

"Where have they gone?"

"The Wishing Angel Graveyard, if I can remember."

Instantly, Diego's short information connected. He is the regular coach driver - if he blacked out momentarily from a blow to his head whilst readying the carriage, it is obvious someone was persistent on driving Jonathan instead. Then before Speedwagon left, Elizabeth handed him a sword. He already figures out who, or what, has taken Jonathan to the graveyard.

"I'm taking one of your horses. I'll pay when I get back." Speedwagon half-promises to the man while guiding a white horse out of its box. It huffs softly as he hops on.

"Hey- without a saddle? Are you mad?" Diego stares from his chair.

Speedwagon grips the reins of the leather bridle, ignoring Diego's baffled face, and gallops out of the stables on the horse. Hurrying into the damp streets of Paris, he sets off for the graveyard.

The heavy overcast in the skies blocks the sun from warming the cold white hills that stretch across the horizon. It's close to midday now by the time Jonathan nears the cemetery. He sits in the leather coach box in silence with a head of darkness, thinking of everything and yet nothing, watching the passing trees and fields that hold nothing but winter's white blankets of snow through the window.

The carriage draws to a gentle stop as they arrive at the entrance of the Wishing Angel Graveyard. Jonathan exits carefully, thanking the unresponsive driver. When Jonathan approaches the large sharp gate, the carriage drives off, scurrying across wet grounds.

Church bells sing far-off in the distance. Cold winds shiver the dead trees that surround the fenced cemetery, empty of their colorful leaves that are now buried beneath piles of snow. Jonathan pushes open the vast iron doors with a long, rusty creak. Crows fly from their branches at the eerie noise.

The young man gazes over the planes of stone and snow. The last time Jonathan was here was when he were a small child. Many statues loom over run down gravestones, carved as angels that lower their heads and weep, hands together in grief.

And just like them, Jonathan is here to mourn and remember as well. In one of the few old mausoleums in this graveyard houses his father's tomb.

George Joestar was a famous violinist in his time. He was talented in music, and often shared his skills with his small son. Many times he lulled Jonathan to sleep by playing him his favorite song on the violin.

That is when the tale of the Angel of Music came to Jonathan after he had been tucked in bed. George told Jonathan that the Angel was never seen, but could be heard by those who were meant to hear it. And it would often happen when you were sad or down-hearted. Then your ears would hear heavenly harmonies and a divine voice that you would remember for the rest of your life.

A year later, George falls deathly ill and could not play the violin any longer. He recited the story to Jonathan on his deathbed one final time while granting him his ring, and reminded the boy that when he was in heaven, the Angel would be sent to him.

And once Jonathan orphaned to the opera house, the Angel's melodies had appeared. Jonathan could not touch a violin after his father's passing, so he'd taken ballet and singing instead. The celestial voice at night coached him in his arts, promising a future of prosperity as long as he would obey.

After the night in the catacombs, he is left shattered and lost. His curiosity broke their relationship, as he had discovered the Angel's face. Then he never heard from him again, until today, with its haunting letter asking to return.

Lost between his options, Jonathan does not know what to do. Torn between his love for Speedwagon, and his awe of the Phantom, he cannot choose. Truthfully he doesn't want to kill him, but doesn't want Speedwagon to find him deceitful with a murderer. So, in the midst of the fog, he is called to his father's grave to seek an answer.

The darkness in the sky begins to hail slow drizzles of snow once Jonathan reaches the shelters of George's tomb. Above steps of old and covered stairs is a large building guarded by two Greek statues that uphold a thick flat roof. A miniature gate serves as doors, and above it reads the name 'Joestar'.

He stops at the stairs and falls to his knees, clenching his hands together close to his chest. He sits in the snow, wrapped in his winter cloak amongst the cold, beseeching quietly under his breath. In need of truth, blinded by evil, and unsure of how he could receive a message, Jonathan's voice crumbles and he grows silent. His face slips into his chilly palms sorrowfully, weeping in the slushy snow as his hair is sprinkled with snowflakes.

Jonathan sobbed before his father's resting place. "Father, I now ask only for your wisdom and guidance, one final time. Although I had bid you farewell, all those years ago, I plead to you now, before your spirit, for the strength to live, for you to light the path I must take."

Yet when all bitterness consumes him amongst the ghosts of his past, a presence appears before him in the guise of a melody. Through the sheer snow flurry and the gloom of the graveyard, a light emanates from inside the mausoleum. Birthed from what seemed like nothing, along with it comes the beautiful singing of a violin which pulls Jonathan's soul from his despair in the shadows.

Jonathan listens as he tries his tears, coming to realize it is the same song his father had used to play to him before he would fall into deep sleep.

Chapter Text

The violin finishes its piece with a long ethereal note, echoing into the graveyard. The nostalgia of the score settles into Jonathan’s skin, prickling him with goosebumps and a speechless quiver to his lip.

He sits up in the snow, clutching his shivering hands together and gazing longingly at the now quiet mausoleum. He wonders if he was imagining his father’s music, and that it could just be his mind’s way of comforting him, but a voice just as lovely as the string music speaks from inside.

“Wandering child; so lost, so helpless - yearning for my guidance…”

The voice is warm and utterly enchanting. It ghosts the familiarity of his father’s voice, yet sings an undertone of something else. A chill runs down Jonathan’s spine from the sudden sensation of a pair eyes staring down on him.

“Are you my father’s spirit? Or a sheer phantasm? Who is it, staring?” Jonathan asks quietly.

"Have you forgotten your Angel?"

"Angel... Oh, speak - what endless longings echo in this whisper?"

“Too long you’ve wandered in winter, dear child - far from my fathering gaze,” the voice says through the shivers of the rising fog. “Dry your tears and come forth… to your Angel of Music!”

The doors to the mausoleum slowly open. The light inside pours out, a strong spectral green illuminating the snow and Jonathan’s seated figure.

Jonathan falls breathless at the voice's striking tone that beckoned him to come forth. Stars twinkle in his eyes, faith lighting up a meager smile to his lips. Though his mind beats against it, he doesn't have the strength to turn away, for his call has been answered.

With a spellbound feeling, Jonathan rises from the ground and gently starts to walk up the steps leading to the open entrance. In each step he takes, his consciousness feels more and more separate from his body, and his legs seem to move on their own. Then it truly felt like he was in a dream, entranced by the emerald glow, and walking along clouds to the mouth of the mausoleum.

As Jonathan gets closer to the light, the voice proclaims to him in a bitter yet summoning tone, “True beauty awaits inside! You’ve denied me for too long. Come to your strange Angel!”

The gloom of the cemetery thickens. In the gray mist along the path appears a galloping frame. On his horse, Speedwagon enters, stopping and jumping off the mount when he spots Jonathan through the nebulous fog, who just steps foot among the threshold.

He approaches the mausoleum quickly while shouting for Jonathan, his blood running colder than the graveyard at the grisly sight; that Jonathan once again is the Angel’s - enraptured by a spell he couldn’t understand, and still calls for him by luring him straight from the grave.

"Jonathan, stop!" Speedwagon calls out, "For God's sake, let him go, dark Angel!”

After another cry of Jonathan's name, the young man freezes. Jonathan squeezes his eyes, the mesmerized glow in round pupils fading away. He regains his vision from the symphonic spell, then turns around to see Speedwagon, who bounds up the steps next to him. "Robert!"

"This man - this thing - is not your father! Don't believe it!" Speedwagon says, grabbing hold of Jonathan's shoulder.

From atop the mausoleum, a figure looms above the pair, with its large stature casting over a sinister shadow. The two look up, Speedwagon drawing the rapier from his scabbard. The figure draws closer to the edge, revealing a pale maddened face with a stone mask. Dio comes to light, his raging scarlet eyes piercing the two and his cloak of blood waving behind him.

"Oh, bravo, bravo monsieur! Such spirited words!" He snarls. From his waist he unsheathes his own rapier, its guard carved into the visage of a skull.

With a powerful leap, he descends from the crypt's roof in a flash of red, the point of his sword charged straight for Speedwagon. The vicomte brings his sword to block the attack, the steels meeting with a harsh pierce. When Dio drives the cut into a trying thrust, Speedwagon glares into the livid glint of the Phantom. Whose eyes are as spiteful as Hell - the abode of the damned.

Speedwagon sustains that shiver of fear upon glancing, but does not freeze up. The tip of Dio's skulled rapier succeeds into a mutated thrust, then becoming a flurry of swings that leave Speedwagon on counters while also driving him away from Jonathan.

The two quickly draw in on each other. Dio pulled back in an instant when Speedwagon parried, casting the end of his crimson cloak at his face to throw him off and try an underhand cut. Speedwagon again parried, but was cornered into the fences around the mausoleum. He lifted his knee and jumped off the ledges of the tomb, tumbling down into the underbrush.

"Let's see monsieur, how far you dare go!" Dio says as he pounces from the fence as well. He stabs his rapier down, but misses as Speedwagon rolls out of the way and hops right back on his feet.

"More tricks? More deception and violence?" The vicomte scowls through gritted teeth. He darts behind a statue as Dio resumes his stance.

On the scuffed path, Jonathan watches in terror from the forest of slabs and stone while trying to keep up with them through the fog.

Dio slinks around the statue, thwarting Speedwagon's surprise strafe and making it his own. He cut and thrust at Speedwagon relentlessly again, driving him back around and through the graveyard. Speedwagon counters his attacks, appalled at Dio's haste. Each toll of their rapiers starved the need for bloodshed.

"You can't win his love by making him your prisoner!" Speedwagon shouts, slipping aside and cutting his blade across Dio's sleeve and piercing the flesh. Red gushes from the wound, splattering into the snow.

Dio recoils at the blow, but doesnt gawk at his injury for long. He spins back around with an angry cry, then cackling.

"I'm here, insolent boy! It is I, the Angel of Death!" He laughs. His movements accelerated, blows becoming somewhat inhumane.

Speedwagon parried, but Dio continued to switch up on him. Dio relentlessly cut and thrust, never giving him a chance to regain balance. He pressed him across the mist, reappearing on the cemetery path.

Dio finally slipped through Speedwagon's guard, who jerked his head back, tip slicing a gash down his face. He drew back at the stinging pain.

Dio grinned, lowering his rapier and slamming his foot into Speedwagon's ribs. He lost his balance and collapsed into the snow. His back hit a headstone, knocking the wind out of him. As he tries to regain focus, Dio's boot comes at him again, kicking his rapier from his grasp.

"Done so soon?" The Phantom jeered, staring down in satisfaction at Speedwagon's fallen figure.

As he lifts his blade with a fangy grin, a silhouette appears in the haze from the side. Dio's wicked smile falters, looking at the shadow last-minute.

The mist rolls aside, and Jonathan appears, ramming his shoulder straight into Dio's chest. The masked man bowls over, plunging into the snow. His sword flies from his hand and leaves a string of blood.

Dio tries to recover, turning his nose up from the snow. He freezes up when he comes face to face with the steel tip of a rapier. His scarlet eyes trail up.

Jonathan stares back at him with wide eyes, trying to hold back a shake in his grip on Speedwagon's discarded blade.

Dio's lip curls at the sight. His glinting stare mocks Jonathan, seemingly daring the man to kill him, to stab right into his heart. A smirk crooks his lips when Jonathan breaks away from the gaze.

Jonathan shakes head, glancing aside and lowering the rapier, showing mercy. He turns away and helps Speedwagon up from the ground. As Jonathan returns the rapier to him, he wipes away a trickle of blood dripping down the vicomte's cut face. He lets him lean against him as they start to make their way to the horse.

"Are you alright?" The brunet whispers, glimpsing back over at Dio who watches enviously while holding his slit arm.

"I'm fine. Let's leave," Speedwagon says. He notices Jonathan's lingering eyes on Dio, so he shook away the ringing in his ears and puts his arm out to escort Jonathan quicker.

They climb onto the horse, Speedwagon grabbing the reins with Jonathan holding onto him from behind. His head is turned down, away from Dio's direction. The horse snorts and trots around to head for the gates, then galloping out of the winter mist. Dio moves when the sound of thumping hooves disappear.

Now he stands alone in the cemetery, with the whistling wind and crows flying overhead. His eye twitches, a seething frown spread on his face and huffing as the adrenaline in his body begins to dissipate.

"Humiliated... Pitied... By none other than he who entices me,” Dio mutters, “That defiance within him - within Jonathan and the boy - what else does it dare to be, than a declaration of war? ...Should he wish for war, then war he shall have!”