Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters and settings from the books by Gaston Leroux and Susan Kay, the musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber, and the movie by Joel Schumacher. I do not claim any ownership over the characters and settings created and owned by them. The same goes for any lyrics and snippets of literature that I will be using ― they all belong to their respective writers. I only own the plot and the original characters of my own invention.

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IMPRESSIONS

1875

A sweetness invaded her sense of taste as Jovan quietly bit into the pastry she held in her hand. Chocolate and cream cheese melted into one sweet sensation as she closed her eyes for a second, savoring the tasty treat. Heavens, she wondered ― what if her life had actually been as sweet as the pastry in her hand? Then perhaps she wouldn't be stuck at the Opéra Populaire, laboring away as one of the stagehands.

Too soon was she pulled away from her reverie and back to reality when Monsieur Reyer's voice rang throughout the theater, announcing that only five minutes remained of the performers and the crew's break. Jovan merely blinked before resuming eating her little snack, gazing below at the sight of the ballet corps and chorus members huddled into groups on the stage. From her perch on the catwalk, as her legs dangled off the edge, she was provided with a view that hid nothing from her eyes. She spotted several ballet rats stretching out their limbs while a few others chose to simply sit or lie down. One chorus girl was trying to hit some notes while little Marguerite, their ballet headmistress' daughter, busied herself by fixing her hair.

The sight easily became a relaxing one but, unfortunately, the moment of peace was cut short as Madame Giry arrived into the scene. By her side, she held the hand of a doe-eyed girl Jovan had never seen before. Whispers instantly rose from the crowd of ballet rats that Madame Giry and the girl presently stood in front of.

Jovan watched as Madame Giry went on to introduce the newcomer. The girl whose shoulders Madame Giry held with a reassuring grip had chocolate-brown curls that stuck out of her braid. She was a rather sad thing to watch, if she was being honest, but Jovan couldn't help but also be impressed with the composed way the girl was holding herself in front of the ballet corps. She even had the smallest of smiles playing on her lips, but it was not enough to draw Jovan's attention away from the melancholy she held in her wide-eyed gaze.

Her mind barely processed the words that left Madame Giry's lips, oozing with the familiar sternness she always had whenever she spoke, as Jovan's curious gaze never left the girl or the way she was wringing her hands out of anxiety. Poor thing, Jovan thought. They were already halfway through production and she could only hope that the girl would be able to deal with the pressure of having to learn all the steps for their latest opera in half the time it took for the rest of the ballet corps to learn.

Or, perhaps, that would not be the case. Maybe she would just be included in the next opera. Who was Jovan to know, anyway?

Jovan's train of thought was disrupted when she felt a heavy weight press on the spot next to her, and she immediately protested.

"Move! There, no ― a little bit more. It's hot enough in here, you know."

A chuckle escaped from the 'intruder' whom she recognized to be one of her fellow stagehands. "Relax, Jo," Mateo answered, obeying her as he sat a foot away from her, but not before patting the beret that crowned Jovan's head. She pushed his hand away with a soft snarl.

"Funny, this habit of yours ― watching whenever someone new arrives," Mateo commented, looking down at the stage. "One of these days, someone's going to mistake you for the Pha―"

Jovan reached to slap his knee before he could even finish. "Quiet. So what if I'm curious?"

"It's going to get you killed. You know what they say about the cat..."

She didn't even bother to give the younger boy a reply as she gave a roll of her eyes. She continued to watch as Madame Giry released the curly-haired girl and it served as a signal of sorts for the rest of the ballet corps to approach her and bombard her with their questions and greetings. Marguerite, or more famously known as Meg, instantly grabbed the new girl's hand with much enthusiasm. What else was to be expected from the girl who was almost quite literally a ray of sunshine? Jovan found herself chuckling at the adorable sight, tugging at her heartstrings. For a moment, she forgot of the exhaustion seeping into her bones.

"Christine, where did you come from?" "You have such beautiful hair!" "Would you like to be friends?" A chorus of inquiries rose from below the stage before the maestro barked at the younger ballerinas to take their business to their dormitories instead, deciding to grant them the last hour of rehearsals to themselves as they showered the newcomer with attention. Without a second to waste, the girls immediately scurried off like the rats they were, with little Meg practically dragging Christine behind her. Once the stage was cleared, Monsieur Reyer announced for rehearsals to resume.

Jovan finally finished the last of her pastry before she wiped her fingers on the leg of her trousers. "Back to work," she muttered as she crossed over towards the eaves, ruffling Mateo's brown locks as she passed by him, before the younger boy pushed her hand away.

"Yes, yes. You just really love to work, don't you?" he scoffed.

But Jovan missed the chance to answer him as she caught movement in the dim lighting of the rafters. A flash of black disappeared as fast as it had moved. It was something that could've been easily missed if another person had seen it, but this was Jovan and her eyesight was well adapted to the dark.

However, she simply waved it away as either another one of the stagehands or their resident Peeping Tom, Joseph Buquet, before her mind could even delve into the possibility of a certain ghost lurking in the shadows not far from where she stood.

Behind her, Mateo had stood up to his feet. "Jovan, did you see something?"

She faced him and arched an eyebrow. "I saw a hideous beast," she remarked dramatically, a smirk tugging on her lips. "And, oh my ― I'm looking at him now!"

Several minutes later, Monsieur Reyer managed to catch the two of them fooling around above in the rafters during the last half-hour of rehearsals.

Tomorrow arrived too fast as the hours quickly passed by in a blur for Jovan. As rehearsals commenced below, she moved about the rafters almost mechanically, obeying where her feet led her whenever she recognized her cues. Backdrops fell and props came and go with their respective scenes as Jovan worked with the other stagehands to keep up with the maestro's instructions.

It was not until halfway through their rehearsals that their peaceful routine was disturbed. Monsieur Lefèvre suddenly made his entrance onto the stage, an envelope dangling from his fingers that bore an all too familiar skull made out of red wax. The moment everyone saw the letter, performers fell out of their places and the instrumentalists ceased their playing. Crew members left their posts to gather on the stage, joining the crowd that had formed around their manager.

Jovan pushed her way to the front of the circle, ignoring her fellow stagehands' snide comments as she pushed them aside, until she arrived by Mateo's side. Monsieur Lefèvre cleared his throat before he opened the envelope and took out the letter. As he read the Opera Ghost's comments and criticisms, whispers and protests began to erupt among the crew and performers. Monsieur Reyer let out a frustrated wail from the orchestra pit before he began to move around his instrumentalists, flipping through their music sheets and telling a few of them of what they were doing wrong and what they needed to improve, as per the Opera Ghost's letter.

Once their manager finished reading the letter, he simply gave an exasperated sigh before requesting for their resident ghost's letter to be followed, down to every last word. He then left the stage without another word, leaving his employees to rant their complaints to each other.

"Corrections and improvements, again?" someone muttered behind Jovan.

"At least he's not as demanding as last time," she heard Mateo answer from her side.

"At least we're doing something right," Jovan added, relief flooding her veins when she'd heard no complaints regarding the stagehands' work. She was about to return to her post when one of the stagehands stepped forward to block her way.

"Well, if something was wrong, at least we'll know immediately whose fault it was," a jeer came from the stagehand as he eyed her with a glint in his eye. A round of sneers and chuckles followed his words.

Jovan saw red and felt her temper flare. Before she could stop herself, she raised her arm and struck a closed fist into the stagehand's face.

An anguished howl of pain escaped the stagehand's mouth. Upon hearing the commotion, Monsieur Reyer wasted no time in sending Jovan to the dormitories where he sentenced her to spend the rest of the day. Jovan didn't even protest as she left without another word, clenched fists shaking as the crew made a way for her, careful not to be in the way of her explosive temper.

"This is unladylike, Jovan!" Elea screeched at her, her ballet shoes dangling from her arm by their ribbons. She paced impatiently before a bed where Jovan's form was stretched across on. The cast and crew were on a break and Elea had immediately rushed to the dormitories to check on her friend before Madame Giry could stop her.

"If you've forgotten, I stopped being a lady a few months ago," Jovan deadpanned as she ran a hand through her short red locks. Her hair ended three inches below her chin and were unevenly cut. Without her beret shading her hair, their color became visible with the help of the afternoon sun's light filtering through the dormitory window.

"Well, excuse me for worrying." Elea crossed her arms over her chest. "If you've forgotten too, if you step a toe out of line, you're out of the opera house for good. You're practically a charity case―"

"Don't remind me," Jovan rasped, giving the ballerina a pointed look. Sometimes, Elea's tongue cut too sharp. On most days, Jovan didn't mind her friend's honesty, but it seemed that her skin wasn't as thick as she thought it was. "Who's going to kick me out anyway? Monsieur Reyer's already scolded me two days in a row this week and he hasn't told me to leave yet ― I mean, not like he could, anyway. Monsieur Lefèvre's too busy to bother or care, and Madame Giry's... well, she doesn't mind, she's handled worse."

"What about the Opera Ghost?" Elea's tone grew quiet and grim as she sat herself on the edge of Jovan's bed.

"Opera Ghost?" Jovan gave a shrug of her shoulders, her eyebrows knitting in confusion. She'd never really given much thought to what their resident ghost thought about her work, not when there was not a single complaint from his letters directed at her. "Doesn't seem to care either. I've always done a good job at being a stagehand, thank you very much."

A heavy silence filled the air as Elea stared at her feet. Jovan could see that the ballerina was genuinely concerned for her well-being, and she placed a hand on Elea's shoulder to give her a reassuring squeeze.

"I'll be fine," she remarked before nudging Elea away from her bed. "Now go. Before Madame Gir―"

Jovan stopped in the middle of her sentence when her eyes spotted a curly-haired girl enter the room. Christine Daaé's eyes widened when they landed on Jovan's form on her bed, most likely out of shock at the trousers she wore and how dirty she was from working in the rafters. Not to mention, she looked completely out of place in the tidiness of the dormitory that Jovan shared with Elea, Christine, and three more girls. Despite not being a part of the ballet corps, Jovan had been sent to stay in their dormitory since she was the only female among the stagehands and it wouldn't have been exactly safe for her to sleep in a room filled with men.

"Hello there," Elea greeted when she saw Christine enter, rushing to the young girl before picking her up and placing her on Jovan's bed. Christine's face lit up with a smile.

"Hi. Are you new here?" she asked Jovan.

Jovan gave a smile of her own, wiping away at her own cheek where she knew there was a smudge of dirt. "Oh no. I arrived here two months ago." She realized that despite sharing the same room, Christine had never seen her yet, probably due to the fact that she arrived late last night when everyone else was fast asleep while she left too early this morning before everyone else was even awake.

"I see," Christine answered. "What do you do around here?"

"I take care of the rigging and the scenery."

Unfortunately, the three had little time to continue their small talk as Madame Giry began to call back for the ballet corps on stage. Elea was quick to leave with Christine, not wanting to let the young girl get in trouble on her second day. Jovan couldn't help but feel a stab of grief at the absence of the two, but she was quick to distract herself from her loneliness as she allowed herself to get lost in the music coming from the auditorium.

Above her, the wooden boards creaked, but Jovan was too absorbed in the orchestra's music to notice.

His interest in the newcomer was... surprising, to say the least. He didn't know why, but there was a strange pull he felt towards her. For all his years living in the bowels of the opera house, she was the youngest orphan they had taken in. Naturally, a protective urge overcame most of the crew and performers, at least those who were decent. Shockingly, or perhaps not, Erik was included among the former. From the moment Christine Daaé arrived, his eyes didn't dare to linger far from her.

How could Erik describe this pull he felt towards the young girl? Like a magnet to metal? Like a moth to a flame? It was indescribable, that was for sure. Even with all his skill and talent, he failed to put into words what this mystery was that he found himself tangled in.

Perhaps it was how she carried herself. Erik had expected her to cower behind Antoinette's skirts the moment they stepped onto the stage but, instead, she had held herself with poise. She had even looked happy as she was introduced to her new family, and the only sign that allowed Erik to see through her facade was the way she was wringing her hands. Needless to say, he was impressed. She held herself better than the girl who threw a fit last year when her parents promised to return to her in the afternoon after rehearsals were done. Fortunately, Monsieur Lefèvre had enough sense in him to ax the girl after a month, despite the trouble of having to deal with the girl's titled parents.

Christine however... Erik didn't think she had a title to her name. He had heard from a conversation between Antoinette and Monsieur Lefèvre that the girl was the daughter of a Swedish violinist, a musical prodigy who had left the world too early, orphaning his only child in the process. Antoinette, who had been a friend to him, had been quick to take in the girl, as if she were her own. Antoinette had spoken to their manager, telling of Christine's years in an academy where she had been trained not only in the art of dancing, but singing as well.

The daughter of a famed violinist who knew how to dance and sing. These things had been enough to pique Erik's curiosity until...

"Sing? But all she did was dance when we asked her to audition," a puzzled Monsieur Lefèvre wondered.

Antoinette sighed. "I'm afraid she lost her passion for singing after Gustave passed away."

It would explain the sorrow that he had seen in her brown eyes the moment she stepped foot into his opera house. Not only had she lost her dearest father but she had also broken a wing, it seemed. If only someone could teach her how to take flight again...

Erik lost himself to the chatter and music below as he waited for their manager to arrive ― it should be anytime now. It was only an hour ago when he had asked Antoinette to deliver a new letter containing his comments for the latest opera. He had come to see whether the staff of the opera house were wise enough to follow his words. He lingered in the shadows of the rafters until, finally, Monsieur Lefèvre arrived with the letter in his hand.

A grin curved Erik's lips as the manager began to read the words from his letter, prompting a strong reaction from the maestro before he proceeded to scour the orchestra pit. The lead soprano went to comfort a chorus girl who, as Erik pointed out in his letter, had trouble hitting notes. Antoinette even gave a sigh upon hearing a comment about two of her ballerinas not having enough grace when it came to execution. The more Monsieur Lefèvre read from the letter, the more his features developed a tired look to them. As he read the last lines written on the paper he held, Erik's gaze went to the newest addition to the ballet corps as Meg held on to Christine's hand.

The last lines consisted of a greeting and welcome dedicated to the Swedish girl. As Monsieur Lefèvre read his words, Erik thought he saw the faintest of smiles trace the young girl's lips.

Immediately after that, Monsieur Lefèvre folded up the letter before telling the cast and crew to follow the Opera Ghost's words. He then made his exit, leaving behind him his employees who began to spill their complaints and protests. Erik was about to take this as his cue to leave when an uproar emanated from the crowd below.

Lo and behold, a stagehand clutched a hand to his nose as red-haired girl stood before him, glancing at her knuckles before Monsieur Reyer barked at her to catch her attention. The maestro then gave her a quick scolding before sending her to the dormitories, and the girl obeyed without a complaint before walking out. The crowd parted to make a way for her, whispers of distaste following her but she appeared to pay no attention to them.

Erik vaguely recognized the girl as Jovan Rousseau, a girl lacking any musical talent who had arrived to the Opéra Populaire with nothing but her nerve. He had found himself bewildered at first with her choice of occupation but he was quick to let it slide. As long as she could handle herself, he didn't mind. And from what he had just witnessed, she did seem more than capable of holding her own against the obscene majority of the stagehands.

He had never paid much attention to Jovan and had always been careful to put distance between himself and the girl. It was not uncommon for the employees of the opera house to have occasional brushes with him as the Opera Ghost, which they easily dismissed as supernatural occurrences, but there was just something in his gut that told him if he happened to cross paths with the female stagehand, she would not be as easily fooled like the rest, despite the superstitions that strongly ran amok in the Opéra Populaire.

But that was not the only reason as to why he didn't want to have to do anything with her, if Erik was being honest.

One of Mateo's offhand comments the previous day, whom Erik recognized as the only one of the stagehands that Jovan had befriended, was close to the reason why Erik refused to even look at Jovan at times. The comment he never got to finish after she'd interrupted him.

One of these days, someone's going to mistake you for the Phantom.

Erik wasn't going to lie ― he was rather impressed with the way she had punched her fellow stagehand (the man deserved it very much, Erik thought) but her actions reminded him of the short temper that she had which was too similar to the one he possessed. It was both fascinating and chilling at the same time, to know that out there in the world, there was someone just like him. Her temper, her curiosity, the way she looked so at peace during her isolation at that very moment...

He wasn't even aware that he had followed Jovan back to her dormitory ― he stood in the empty, dusty room that occupied the space directly above her shared room. The wooden boards beneath his feet had narrow slits that allowed him to peek down at the dormitory below. His narrowed eyes studied her lounging form on her bed, a distant look in her eyes as music drifted from the auditorium to both their ears. Her lips were moving to the lyrics of the song but no sound escaped them.

Erik almost always noticed everything and everyone around him. It was both a gift and a curse. And whether he was aware of it or not, this was not the first time that he had seen a fragment of himself reflected in the red-haired stagehand.

With a quiet sigh, Erik walked away, the wood creaking beneath his feet.