And It's All in How You Mix the Two

A/N: It's been two weeks, and after several technical errors, Ana's procrastination, and Marisa's crazy schedule, it's finally up! :D Welcome to And It's All in How You Mix the Two. We can't wait to hear what you think of the story- don't hesitate to rate and review, because we'd very much appreciate it. This story is modern and also an AU, but most original things are the same, we promise. :)

As for the rating, it's only rated M for later chapters... one of which I (Marisa) will not be participating in writing... I like being a good little Catholic girl. :D Ana will be handling that. Thank God.

As for a general explanation: check the summary. But here's some more.

We promise here and now that we are sworn E/C fans. Don't get scared away by the O/C!

Ana: There will be Raoul bashing in this story. Marisa: No, there won't be. One likes Raoul, one doesn't. We'll see who wins.

As far as the story goes, we have the whole thing planned out in a general storyline, but ideas are welcome in reviews or messages sent to our username. :)

Thanks so much for reading! :D

Chapter One:

Paris at night—what a sight to behold. The bright lights of the city contrasted sharply against the yawning abyss of the night sky, nearly outshining the winking stars embedded in the velvet darkness. Below, in the bustling city, the crowd of tourists and veterans moved in one steady stream, as if they were on huge entity. A variety of people could be seen; male and female, young and old and those in between, those graced with the spirit of beauty and those who were not so fortunate. The list went on, but in the end, their glowing faces all meshed into a tapestry of emotion, whether it was simply a happy grin or a dismal frown, or the intricate weavings of surprise or barely concealed laughter.

So was the human race—a jumble of differences, but in the end, one and the same, living life in the throes of every emotion, every single one sliding across an upturned face, though some only expressed in the light or darkness of someone's eyes.

But what if a person had their emotions concealed and locked up, hidden behind the impenetrable surface of a mask?

What if these emotions had long lay dormant, then, with nearly no warning, suddenly burst from a heart that had long ago been destroyed, like a great flood of passion and horror?

Some would say this would make the person a monster—long ago forgotten by society and hiding in their own terrorized mind. It would be a sight to see, indeed; a human being, so stricken with the suppressed emotion that had suddenly burst from them with such a force to leave them breathless, curled up in the fetal position in a gutter or an alley, sobs wracking their already-spent body.

And that is exactly what Émilie Roche saw as she stood at the very end of an alley next to an opera house: a figure curled into a ball next to a Dumpster, back turned to her, and misery shuddering along their frame. From what she could tell, the figure was male—a broad back and shoulders convinced her of that. She could see the back of his head, and either he was wearing a hat, or his hair was a rich shade of dark chocolate, the color nearly black.

"Excuse me… uh, sir, but are you okay?" she asked in English, in case he was a tourist that had taken a wrong turn.

The broken, shuddering cries halted for a brief moment before the man slowly uncurled himself, risking a glance over his left shoulder. From what she could see, the man was certainly attractive, a perfectly slanted eyebrow lowered over the most unique eye she had ever seen. The shade was a scorching gold, the color burning in the shadows of the alley. It tapered off to a softer amber at the edge of the iris, though his narrowed, depressed glare had hardened the edge. The beginning of a straight nose could be seen over his cloaked shoulder, and then he glanced away, content to ignore the sudden obstruction in his emotional decline.

He didn't bother to answer, because to be honest, he didn't want some insolent girl to help him. She looked nothing like who he was currently mourning—instead of long, curly, brunette locks, this girl had shoulder-length, wavy, dark hair, parted to the side. Her eyes were deep and brown, concern radiating from the center, unlike the hurt, angered, jade ones that filled his vision. This girl was thin as well, almost as much as Chris—

"No," Erik muttered aloud in French, unaware of whether or not he had answered the girl's question. He placed his right hand over his face as the salty betrayal of emotion trickled down his face, the rivers newly inspired by his spiral into misery.

"Is there anything I can do?" Émilie asked, switching back to French, and her voice taking on the soothing, gentle tones one normally associates with motherhood. However, her kind tone did nothing to him besides cause his anger to spike into a dangerous region.

"I don't need help from little girls with perfect lives," he hissed, turning his burning, gold gaze to her. "No. In fact, I am much better off alone to mourn the loss of my only tether to this cruel mockery that goes by the name of life," he continued, and she saw his cheeks lift slightly into a bitter smile, though the expression only hardened his golden-hued eyes into the unbreakable surface of a statue.

To say she was speechless was an understatement. This man, who she didn't even know, had just put all of life's miseries and depressions into merely two sentences. Based on the sound of his voice, she could easily place him in some kind of musical career. Even with him just talking, his voice was deep and smooth, almost as if he had been singing instead of hissing hateful things at her. And that snapped her out of her thoughts, and she slid her eyes to his figure, though he was turned away from her again.

"Listen. I don't know what happened to you, but I just want to help you. So please—"

"Enough." That one word had so much weariness and hurt in it that she stopped short, her eyes widening as she could almost feel the prickling of tears behind her eyelids. When she listened closely, she could hear sounds of quiet crying—and yes, it must have been coming from him, for though she was close, she wasn't the one who had tears leaking from her eyes.

Before she knew what she was doing, Émilie was at the end of the alley with the mysterious, broken man she had tried to reason with. Her hand found his muscled arm, giving it a gentle tug upwards. The crying ceased for a moment, and the man shifted his face in his hands. To her surprise, he rose to his feet unsteadily, muttering a curse in French under his hand, which covered the entire right side of his face.

She would have called it compassion, but Émilie really didn't know what had possessed her to help the poor, miserable man she had discovered in the alley. She supported his left side as they stumbled out of the alley together, several tears dropping onto her hand as the man continued to cry. She directed them into the still-steady stream of people, leading the way towards her small apartment down the street.

It was going to be a long night.