Eyes closed.
Eyes closed. Deep breaths. Still. Absolutely still. You must not think. You must let the sound take control. Be the music the most heavenly nectar in the world or the screechy vocals of the drama prima donna or no music at all but simply noise, quiet or loud. You do not stop dancing. If the sky crashes and the world stops, your feet keep moving through the syrupy liquid of time. You do not rest until you strike the final pose. You do not even breathe until you have glided off that stage. No one controls you but the dance. You hear no one, see everything in blurs and the world is in motion and so is your head—it can't stop spinning. But it's the best feeling in the world and it can't be taken away. You won't let it. You fight to keep it; keep the adrenaline, the excitement. You fight to keep the dance. And your whole world will fall to pieces if you do not dance, if your feet are not moving. It does not matter that you practice until your feet are bleeding and the soles of your shoes are torn, because in the end its worth it.
Nothing can stop you from dancing.
---
Dance had what led Meg Giry out of bed, late at night, to the darkened stage.
She lived in the city now. The small, quaint apartment where she lived with her mother met all basic needs, but was not home. How could it be when home was but a few blocks away? That's how Meg had found herself on the charred and ruined stage of the opera doing what she did best.
Dancing.
There was no music and a single candle spread a small pool of light on the stage. It was enough simply to be home in every essence of the word. On stage was the only place where Meg could ever be at peace.
So she danced. She danced until her feet bled and she could not breathe and her soul had run dry of any and all emotion.
She did not take any notice of the dark figure watching her from the dark. She was busy, dancing.
---
He watched her from the shadows of his ruined manor. His. What was this ballet rat doing here? The little Giry was just dancing. Yet she had to dance here, in his home of all places.
But he understood. She was born here at the opera house, raised here, ate here, slept here, lived, breathed and worked here. It was her home as much as his though he liked to think he himself was the sole master of the Opera Populaire.
How she kept dancing the Phantom did not know. She leapt over charred pieces of wood, pirouetted past fallen columns and twirled by his hiding place in the shadow. It was strange, dancing in an abandoned opera house with no music and not a bit of light yet it was beautiful and Erik found his lips turning upward at the curiosity.
It was raw passion released from its restraints. She was Marguerite Giry. She was little Meg. She was a dancer. And she was beauty.
---
She spun closer to his shadowy hiding place and the small glow of the candle placed nearby.
He stepped closer just by impulse.
She heard the slightest of rustles but kept on spinning.
He stood in awe of her.
She leapt even closer.
He was enthralled and did not take notice.
She grabbed his hand.
He pulled her near.
They were close.
---
"What are you doing here Marguerite? Isn't a bit too late to be dancing? And at a ruined opera house of all places…"
The Phantom regarded the petite dancer with amusement as they stood, almost frozen. She stared back evenly with a stolid expression.
"Monsieur le fantôme, the better question is, why were you watching me?"
She had to look up at him as she cocked an eyebrow due to his sheer height and her lack of it. What could have been the beginnings of a smile played at his lips but Meg remained cool. She had never been known for being emotional—rather more reticent unlike the ever so dramatic Christine. He regarded her calmly.
"Leave. Leave me to my home. I do not wish to be bothered by annoying little ballet rats."
"In case you've forgotten monsieur, this was my home as well. At least until you burned it down because you could not handle rejection."
Meg found herself pinned to a wall, her wrists gripped tightly with the Phantom staring coldly down at her.
"Little Giry likes to run her mouth off," he hissed into her ear.
"How dare you!" Meg shrieked. "Imbécile! Bastard! How dare you even touch me!"
He looked down at her with disgust.
"Does the petite danseuse not like being touched by un monstre?" He ripped off the plain, white mask that adorned his face. "Tell me Marguerite. Do I not scare you?"
She looked upon the skeletal contours of his face with the ease of one selecting a loaf of bread. "Why should I be afraid? So you have a little problem. Un petit problem. Do you think everyone is so cowardly as to be scared off? Just because Christine was a spineless does not mean I am Erik."
Cold, dark eyes scanned her face. "How do you know my name?"
Softness had invaded his cold exterior and his voice had almost a childlike innocence. His grip on her loosened and Meg found herself sinking to the ground, rubbing her wrists.
"My mother." she whispered glancing up at his imposing figure.
He turned his back to her, his shoulders shuddering as he took a deep breath.
She stood up slowly moving closer.
"It is okay, monsieur, to not want to be alone. It is okay to want to be loved."
He turned his head, exposing his pale profile. Dark eyes surveyed the petite dancer.
"Erik."
She tilted her head slightly, gazing at him curiously.
He turned to face her fully, looking down upon her.
"You may call me Erik."