Something that always confused me when I read TPOTO was why The Phantom chose box five out of all the private boxes to be his.
Out of all the seats in the house, box five is among the worst and would be (and still is) sold cheaply (average 65 francs at cheapest in 1880, now sold a between 10-25 euros nowadays) on general sale. A higher profit would've been made from a year-long booking, especially since there are multiple seats, so it would be 65 francs per person on a yearly booking no matter how many people are in there at once, but still not as much as other seats.
Visual wise, a good chunk of the left side of the stage is cut off and parts of the performance that would occur in the higher wings would be completely unseen, so, why choose it? Isn't the main point of going to go watch an Opera is to actually see the performance?
(A screenshot from the Palais Garnier's seat listing stating the best seats for viewing and the view from the box five via this video)
Having been there myself in late May, I found an answer to my own question and I'm gonna share it with you guys because maybe someone else was asking the same thing!
Although yes, the stage is half cut off, it's one of, if not the, best seats acoustic wise. You're a perfect distance from the orchestra as well as the stage for everything to sound just right. As much as The Phantom would've loved the operatic performance, I don't doubt he would've been more focused on the music itself as well as the vocals, and, mainly, Christine.
Further, although going to the opera was more of a social thing than an entertainment thing, so the boxes were built for aristocracy to be seen above all things, you can disappear from public view quite easily in that box. There are two to three rows of seats going backwards to the door, so all one would have to do to disappear from sight of anyone on stage or in the audience would be to just move a seat backwards (which means he wouldn't have been able to see the stage at all, but would still be able to hear everything perfectly well).
Plus, the box is located right at the end of the row of private boxes, as well as very close to entry and exit stairs, both public ones and private ones meant for stage hands and general workers.
All in all, those three reasons are why the box was chosen and kept in high priority for The Phantom, because he could quite literally disappear, like a ghost, by just moving himself in the box, as well as disappear out of the box and hear Christine almost perfectly.
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"Look, Steve, I don't have any bad feelings towards you," Eddie says, has been saying, talking nonsense, like he and Steve weren't anything more than fuckbuddies, like he isn't breaking Steve's heart. "I used you too, y'know?"
It's then Steve rears back like he been slapped. Or punched. It feels more like a gutting. Joke's on him, he supposes. Once again, he wants more than the other person. He wanted a boyfriend, Eddie'd wanted sex. Why does he keep trying? When Steve finds his voice to speak, it comes out flat and dead and not really like a question at all. "Used me. Like you think I've used you?"
Eddie shrugs, looking for all the world like he's not bothered by that statement. "We had fun, right? So it's all fine in the end."
"Fine," Steve repeats, hollow. They're in his house but Steve feels the need to leave, to run before the reality of how unlovable he truly is sticks inside him forever.
"But I think we should stop while we're ahead," Eddie continues and Steve wonders if Eddie is listening to him at all, or just saying his piece before he goes. Can he not hear Steve's heart breaking? "I want to... I want to find someone to love."
If Eddie's previous words felt like being gutted, these ones feel like cement. Heavy and solidifying. Trapping in the truth of Ever Unlovable Steve. He doesn't even feel heartbroken anymore. Just numb. Dead inside. He should say something encouraging. Let Eddie know that all he's wanted was for Eddie to be happy and loved. But words seem impossible, so he gives one jerky nod of his head. An understanding.
"Right," Eddie says, returning the nod before turning away, towards the door, "I'll just go now. Umm, see ya later, Harrington."
Facing the horrors of the Upside Down should feel like the scariest thing he's ever done but it doesn't. Watching Eddie walk away does. Steve should be able to hold it together long enough for Eddie to leave. He's the tough one. He can hold himself together no problem-
"Why can't you love me?"
Eddie whips back around, an expression on his face like confusion and anger mixed.
It's only then that Steve realizes he spoke. He hasn't meant to. He was going to let Eddie walk away but now his voice has been freed from the cement. His heart has shut down his brain it seems because he just keeps talking, voice flat and hollow, "why can't you love me the way I love you? What is so broken and wrong within me that no one loves me back? My parents, Nancy, now you. Why can't- I thought that we were- where did I go wrong?"
"What?" Eddie asks, and the anger is gone from his face but now he just looks horrified. Which is understandable. It's horrifying to be loved by Steve Harrington. "What did you think we were?"
Boyfriends. Together. Going steady. At the very least, dating without labels. But none of those very reasonable, normal answers come out of Steve's treacherous mouth. Because Steve can't seem to be a reasonable, normal person. He's got to be too much, too soon, too clingy. So, instead, he says, "In love."
Eddie looks like he's just received the worst news of his life. In fact, he looks a little sick. "Oh fuck. Jesus Christ. I can't- I thought- Fuck!"
Steve just nods along. He hadn't actually said I love you to Nancy that night at Tina's Halloween party, but he imagines if he had, the beginning of the bullshit conversation would have sounded much the same as Eddie does now; like anger and regret, the starts and stops. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have- if you want to go, you should go."
Eddie crosses the room back to Steve in half the steps he took when he first walked away, hands reaching to grab Steve's face between them. He speaks quickly and sounds panicked now. "No, no no no. I fucked up, misunderstood. I don't know how I got it so wrong. I don't want to go. I never did."
"What?"
"I am in love with you, sweetheart. I just- I didn't know you loved me back. I thought you didn't- that we weren't..."
"I thought we were boyfriends."
"Jesus, please let me fix this. Let me stay and make it up to you. I'll be the best fucking boyfriend you've ever had."
Steve thinks if he had any shred of self-worth he might step back, make Eddie explain himself, but as it is, he steps into Eddie's space and kisses him, hands pulling him as close as he can get. He doesn't want to think about the cruel things Eddie's said, about using each other. Maybe one day they'll have to hash that out, have that conversation, but Eddie says he loves him too, and that's all Steve's wanted.
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The Shofar Breaks Your Heart
by Dane Kuttler
When you give a girl a shofar –
no, not a proper instrument of G-d,
but a rough-cut horn with no real mouthpiece
her aunt brings back from a trip to Jerusalem,
don’t make it easy.
Put it up on the shelf in the living room
where its curled promise of a shout
will tempt her until she can reach it on tiptoe.
Tell her no one has ever found its voice,
that she will only make it grunt, bray and sputter
like the animal it came from.
Then give her a few years.
Give her an empty garage and a neighborhood
Jewish enough to understand what it’s hearing
so she can practice until
tiny tekiot burst forth from the scrap of ram.
She will be the only one who can ever shape its sounds,
can bend the call to tekiah, round off nine drops of t’ruah wailing,
fling the anguished cry of a sh’varim from its mouth.
Let her brag about this. Remember that children
are not humble creatures, that the simple act of being heard
is their great triumph. Let her be heard.
Bring her to Hebrew school.
Teach her the story of the rabbi
who told his students that he would put the words of Torah on their hearts;
that the words would only find their way in when the students’ hearts broke.
Let her sit with that tale for as long as it takes
for her own heart to shatter, for torah and poetry and forgiveness
find their way inside,
play her Leonard Cohen. Let him croon about the cracks in everything,
that’s how the light gets in, let her begin searching for light,
ask her where she thinks the cracks come from,
give her Auschwitz, give her Torquemada, give her pogrom and
quota and blacklist, the ashes of all her burnt bridges,
give her avinu malkenu, ashamnu, ashamnu, ashamnu,
watch her break
her heart
with her fist.
Give her the shofar.
Let the horn steal her breath,
let her begin to understand that she’s not holding a dead piece of animal,
but a living prayer.
Teach her: after every blast
you can hear the echo
of the still small voice.
If you listen for it,
you can hear the calls for the wild cries they are;
salute them with a straight back when they yank you from your amidah;
and should you hear a shofar blower struggle and gasp and strain for each call,
imagine yourself a trapped animal, desperate to be heard.
When it’s over,
Close your eyes.
Be. Broken. Here. Before G-d and your people. Be. Cracked.
feel the light
and the words
come
in.
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The villain stopped, attention zeroing in on the blood on the protagonist's lip. The very air, the clouds, the universe seemed to stop moving.
"Who?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Give me a name or I'll take it out on all of them."
The protagonist's jaw clenched. Their hand rose, smearing the blood away.
The villain was at their side in an instant.
If it was only pleasure at the excuse to cause pain - which it was - then maybe it would have been easy. But it wasn't just that. It was never just that.
"If I tell you, you have to promise me not to hurt them."
The villain cocked their head and raised an eyebrow. Chiding, but gentle enough. They both knew that wasn't a compromise the villain would make, just as they both knew the protagonist would not tolerate mindless sadism.
"Fine," the protagonist said, "you have to promise not to hurt them for more than -" they floundered - "ten seconds."
"Deal." It was too quick, too easy, and beneath the churning guilt the protagonist's heart swelled for such fierce protection.
They swallowed.
"Who?" the villain asked, again, soft.
They gave the name.
The villain, it turned out, could make ten seconds count for an awful lot.
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//. ✨ ☆ . ° 🌟🌈 :. *₊ ° . ☆ selfship positivity!
you're still a valid selfshipper if you've only interacted with one part of their media, still valid if you haven't finished their source, and still super valid if you only selfship with one variant of your f/o!
franchises can span so many forms of media— films, games, comics, books, tv, I could go on... no matter how much of it you've consumed, you're still just as much of a fan as anyone else, and your love for your f/o is just as real as someone who's seen it all!! take it easy and enjoy self-shipping on your own terms, it's for your enjoyment after all <3
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reference: gale & scars
ea gale had quite a few more scars than the final iteration of gale we have in the game now (click to view a bigger version):
-three smaller ones across his forehead, one of those three near his temple
-another smaller one on his jaw, near his right ear
-a larger one on the left side of his neck, still looking quite red in colour
flycamming a bit more made me realise that they didn't only keep one of the scars on his forehead:
but they also did keep the large one on his neck as well, although it's much less obvious now:
it's not as red and painful looking as it was in ea, but the texture of it is still undeniably there.
i've wondered since ea how he got it. one of the lines that you get from gale if he's taken by orin could be a hint or a possibility - even though, of course, it may be entirely unrelated:
Gale: I’ve been threatened with the sharp end of a dagger before, but never with such a monster as Orin holding the blade.
they also added one to his chin, hidden under his beard:
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