Chapter 73-Harmonies and Revelations

Dorian's POV
By mid-afternoon, the brownstone had metamorphosed into a proper rehearsal sanctuary. Braden had relocated the baby grand from the formal living room to the more spacious family room, creating sufficient area for rudimentary blocking. Andy, before departing for his meeting, had engineered a makeshift lighting system using adjustable lamps, colored gels, and precisely positioned reflectors. Even Ryan had contributed before heading to work, establishing a sophisticated recording setup to enable critical review of our performances.
Nadia emerged from her vocal preparation looking incandescent despite the subtle shadows of anxiety beneath her eyes. She wore a simple white dress that evoked Christine's costume from the "Think of Me" sequence—whether by conscious design or subconscious inhabitation, she was already embodying the character's essence.
"How are you feeling?" I asked as she joined me by the piano, the gentle scent of her lavender throat spray mingling with the room's ambient warmth.
"Terrified," she admitted, fingers absently tracing the piano's polished edge. "Excited. Overwhelmed. All simultaneously."
"All perfectly appropriate responses to potentially securing your dream role."
Braden entered from the kitchen bearing a tray with water bottles, throat lozenges, and sliced lemons with honey—ever the practical caretaker among us.
"Shall we commence?" he suggested, arranging the provisions with characteristic precision. "I thought we might begin with the 'Phantom of the Opera' duet, since it features both Nadia and Dorian."
"Excellent suggestion," I agreed, adjusting my position in the improvised performance space. "I've been analyzing Michael Crawford's phrasing techniques, and I believe there's substantial room for a more contemporary interpretation without sacrificing the essential gothic atmosphere."
Braden nodded approvingly, settling at the piano with the quiet confidence of someone who understood the instrument as an extension of himself. "Let's explore that approach."
As we positioned ourselves within our makeshift opera house, I experienced that distinctive frisson—the electric current that precedes truly significant performances. Despite the informal setting, despite the absence of proper costumes and elaborate staging, this felt momentous. We were preparing for something that could fundamentally alter the trajectory of our artistic lives and personal relationships.
Braden's fingers descended on the keys, producing those iconic opening notes that had haunted theaters worldwide for decades. Nadia began Christine's part, her voice revealing the remarkable evolution she'd undergone during her time in The Proposition—developing a richness and technical control that perfectly complemented Christine's journey from ingénue to emerging artistic force.
When my entrance arrived, I channeled everything I'd been cultivating—the Phantom's magnetic presence, his obsessive devotion, his tortured humanity. The character existed in that complex liminal space between villain and victim, monster and man. Portraying him required embracing contradictions, finding the wounded soul beneath the physical and psychological masks.
Our voices intertwined in the climactic sections, Nadia's crystalline soprano soaring above my resonant baritone, creating that magical tension that defined the musical's core relationship. By the final notes, I felt transported—no longer standing in our brownstone but deep beneath the Paris Opera House, in that underground kingdom where beauty and darkness achieved their perfect synthesis.
When the music concluded, Braden's expression revealed everything. He remained motionless, fingers still resting on the keys, his face displaying genuine astonishment.
"That was..." he began, then shook his head as if language proved insufficient.
"It was adequate?" Nadia asked, that ever-present undercurrent of self-doubt surfacing despite months of professional success.
"It was extraordinary," Braden corrected emphatically. "Both of you. If you perform with that level of connection at the audition, they'll be negotiating contracts before you leave the room."
His praise carried particular weight. Braden dispensed compliments judiciously, with almost clinical precision; if he described something as extraordinary, he meant precisely that.
"Your turn," I said, gesturing toward him. "Let's experience your interpretation of Raoul."
He hesitated momentarily, shifting on the piano bench. "I've been focusing primarily on supporting your preparations. Raoul isn't the most nuanced character in the narrative."
This observation contained truth but also served as convenient deflection. Braden, despite his considerable talents, occasionally retreated from the spotlight. It created an intriguing paradox—someone so successful in musical theater who sometimes seemed more comfortable facilitating others' brilliance than claiming center stage for himself.
"Nonsense," I said firmly. "Raoul provides essential contrast. The entire narrative collapses without him. Let's hear 'All I Ask of You.'"
Braden glanced toward Nadia, who nodded encouragingly. "I'd welcome the opportunity to work through it together," she said. "We haven't yet practiced it as a duet."
With a resigned smile, Braden moved from behind the piano. "Someone will need to provide accompaniment."
"I can manage that aspect," I offered, taking his position. My piano skills, while not as refined as Braden's, proved sufficient for rehearsal purposes.
I initiated the gentle introduction to "All I Ask of You," observing as Braden underwent a subtle but profound transformation—his posture straightening imperceptibly, his expression softening into Raoul's earnest devotion. When he began to sing, his warm tenor filled the space with surprising emotional depth.
What transpired next caught me entirely unprepared. As Braden and Nadia performed the love duet, something atmospheric shifted around them. Their chemistry, always compelling in professional contexts, seemed to intensify into something more elemental. They gravitated closer, their expressions no longer merely performed but authentically experienced. By the climactic embrace, I found myself witnessing something that transcended rehearsal—something startlingly intimate.
It created a curious sensation, simultaneously serving as accompanist and observer, providing the musical foundation for a love scene between two people for whom I harbored complex feelings. In the actual production, as the Phantom, I would eventually interrupt this very duet, watching from shadowed corners with mingled rage and heartache. But in this moment, my emotional response proved considerably more nuanced.
I didn't experience jealousy in any conventional sense—our arrangement had never centered on exclusivity. But something about witnessing Braden and Nadia together, their voices and bodies achieving such perfect harmony, illuminated the shifting dynamics between all five of us with unexpected clarity.
When the song concluded, they remained entwined a moment longer than strictly necessary. I continued playing, transitioning seamlessly into the reprise where the Phantom overhears their declarations of love. The choice felt symbolically appropriate—a musical acknowledgment of the complicated triangle that animated both the musical and, increasingly, our own reality.
"And that," I observed as I completed the musical phrase, "is precisely why they'll cast all three of us. The chemistry proves undeniable."
Braden stepped back from Nadia, appearing slightly disoriented, as if returning from somewhere distant. "It felt...different," he acknowledged. "Distinct from our performances in The Proposition."
"More genuinely romantic, less transactional," Nadia agreed, color lingering in her cheeks. "Though I wonder if I should incorporate more of Christine's ambivalence at this juncture. She remains torn between her mysterious mentor and this childhood-friend-turned-suitor."
"I believe you achieved the perfect equilibrium," I said. "The affection registers as authentic, while still maintaining that essential underlying tension."
We continued rehearsing for another hour, concentrating on individual pieces before exploring the trio's key interactions. Throughout the session, I found myself analyzing not just our artistic performances but our actual interpersonal dynamics. How would London transform things between us? How would geographical separation affect our connections with Ryan and Andy?
By late afternoon, we had reached that productive exhaustion that signals meaningful artistic work. Nadia excused herself to rest her voice before that evening's performance of The Proposition, and Braden departed to prepare a late lunch.
Alone in our impromptu rehearsal space, I permitted myself a rare moment of unguarded reflection. This week represented a fulcrum point—I could sense it with absolute clarity. Whatever transpired at the audition, we wouldn't return to New York quite the same people who had left it.
I moved to the window, gazing out at Manhattan's distinctive skyline—that jagged geometry of human ambition rendered in steel and glass. I'd loved this city since drama school, its frenetic energy and uncompromising aspirations forming the backdrop to every significant chapter of my adult life. The prospect of leaving it—even for London's hallowed stages—evoked more complicated emotions than I had anticipated.
My phone vibrated with a notification. The London real estate agent had forwarded additional property options, including a spacious two-bedroom in Notting Hill with original architectural details and proximity to Holland Park. I examined the photographs, attempting to visualize our lives unfolding there—Braden preparing coffee in that light-filled kitchen, Nadia rehearsing lines in the elegant living room, myself returning home along those tree-lined streets after an evening performance.
It would constitute an entirely different existence. A new chapter in our collective story.
The sound of the front door opening announced Ryan's return. I secured my phone, preparing to resume our customary dynamic of affectionate antagonism. But when he appeared in the doorway, his expression conveyed unusual seriousness.
"Everything all right?" I inquired.
"Yeah," he replied, then hesitated, shifting his weight. "Actually, no. I just encountered Charlie from Hamilton. He mentioned they're actively seeking a lighting director for their European tour."
I raised an eyebrow, immediately comprehending the implications. "And?"
"And I have an interview next week." Ryan's tone maintained forced casualness, but underlying excitement vibrated beneath his words. "It would involve six months in Europe. Beginning in Paris, then London for an extended engagement, followed by various European cities."
"London," I repeated, the word gaining new significance. "You would be in London."
"For a portion of the time, yes." Ryan's performatively casual shrug couldn't disguise the intensity in his gaze. "Thought you should know. Since we discussed the situation earlier."
I felt a smile spreading across my face. "This constitutes your understated way of communicating that you might be joining us?"
"If you secure the roles," he clarified, leaning against the doorframe with studied nonchalance. "And if I obtain the position. And if the scheduling aligns. That's considerable contingency."
"But it's conceivable."
"It's conceivable," he acknowledged.
I suppressed the impulse to embrace him, knowing Ryan preferred less demonstrative forms of affection. Instead, I offered a knowing look. "You couldn't bear the prospect of separation, could you?"
"Don't flatter yourself," he scoffed, but without conviction. "The compensation is superior, and it represents professional advancement."
"Naturally. Purely a career-oriented decision."
"Precisely."
We shared a moment of mutual understanding, neither directly acknowledging what this development might mean for our unconventional family. It remained premature, too uncertain. But the possibility hovered in the space between us—a chance that the separation we'd been dreading might not prove as absolute as we had feared.
"Does Andy know?" I asked.
Ryan shook his head. "Not yet. I wanted to ascertain whether it represented a genuine possibility before mentioning it."
"He'll support your decision."
"Yeah," Ryan agreed, though uncertainty shadowed his expression. "It's still far from ideal. He can't simply abandon the performing arts center project."
"One challenge at a time," I advised. "Let's observe where these various opportunities lead before attempting to solve hypothetical problems."
Ryan nodded, then surveyed the room with its temporary rehearsal configuration. "How was today's session? The preparation."
"Exceptional," I replied, unable to prevent pride from coloring my voice. "I believe we're thoroughly prepared."
"Good." Ryan's expression softened momentarily, revealing the genuine person beneath the carefully maintained facade of indifference. "I meant my earlier assessment. You'll make an extraordinary Phantom."
From Ryan, this degree of earnestness was sufficiently rare to prove somewhat disarming. "Thank you," I said simply.
As he departed to change before dinner, I returned to the window, my thoughts recalibrating around new possibilities. Ryan's potential joining us in London altered the equation significantly. It didn't constitute a comprehensive solution—Andy would remain in New York, at least initially—but it represented a beginning.
The city outside was transitioning from afternoon to evening, buildings capturing the golden light of the setting sun, transforming glass windows into flame. Change approached rapidly, more swiftly than any of us had anticipated. All we could do was prepare with maximum thoroughness and trust that what we had constructed together possessed sufficient strength to evolve without fracturing.
I collected my annotated score, fingers tracing the notes of "Music of the Night." The Phantom's signature piece centered on seduction, on drawing someone into an unfamiliar world of sensations and possibilities. In a similar fashion, London represented for all of us a new realm filled with both promise and uncertainty.
One week until the audition. One week to perfect our performances. One week before we'd discover if this new chapter would truly commence.
I inhaled deeply and began to sing once more, filling the empty room with the Phantom's haunting melody, letting it spiral upward into the afternoon light.