Author's Note: I just wanna give my thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter ― you know who you guys are. I couldn't stop smiling like an idiot as I read your reviews! I love hearing from you guys and your feedback matters a lot to me! Here's the next one!

( ten )

TROUBLE IS A FRIEND

"Broken mornings, broken nights, and broken days in between." Elea's voice rang out in their dormitory as she fixed her hair into a braid. The tune and lyrics that were slipping from her lips were unfamiliar to Jovan and, as far as she knew, not one of the songs that was to be performed in their latest show.

The two girls had the room all to their selves as their four other roommates had slipped out earlier to get breakfast. Jovan and Elea, when Tess tried coaxing them to come along, had said that they would follow shortly. Jovan had just finished lacing her boots when Elea sang the next line to her song.

"Open ground, the sky is open, makes an open scene," the ballerina crooned, adding a final touch to her braid as she tied a white ribbon at the end of it. Jovan marched up to Elea, who sat on the edge of her bed, and crossed her arms over her chest when she reached the ballerina.

"Someone's chirpy this morning," she commented. "Are you just going to sing all day in here?"

Elea clicked her tongue as she stood up and faced the redhead. "Don't rain on my parade just because you can't sing," she answered with a wink.

Jovan narrowed her eyes at her, her temper spiking at the comment. "That's not it. I'm worried because we're going to be late for breakfast!"

The ballerina shushed her, taking Jovan's hands in hers. "Don't worry, Jove. You may not be able to sing as good as us but at least your voice's still good for something."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I mean, have you heard yourself? That deep timbre of yours―"

Jovan wrenched her hands away from Elea's grasp before she could finish her sentence. She could not understand her friend's sudden change of topic and why they were talking about her voice, of all things, on that morning. "Are you listening to yourself? Please don't tell me you're drunk!" she snapped, her features contorting into an expression of irritation.

Elea looked insulted. "I was just trying to comfort you―"

"Comfort," Jovan hissed with a mocking tone, her temper rising further. "I'll let you know, Elea, that I'm perfectly fine with my inability to sing or catch a tune, and I'm well aware of how my voice sounds," she exclaimed.

"Then why are you angry?"

"I'm not! I just ― let's just not talk about it again, okay?" she answered after taking in a deep breath.

Elea simply bit her lower lip and gave a nod of her head, not wanting to further aggravate Jovan. With that, Jovan took one of the ballerina's hands in hers and led her away from her bed and towards the door.

Amir Vacher, their thirty-something-year-old lead stagehand, was shouting something about a damage in the fly system when Jovan arrived backstage. Apparently, one the ropes that held the counterweights was worn out and the counterweight it held could fall at any moment. Amir was ordering for the damage to be repaired as soon as possible.

A few weeks into production and already, there were problems that had to be dealt with. Majority of the crew members didn't mind as long as they knew that it wasn't the doing of their resident ghost. While Jovan reckoned that Erik wouldn't cause any inconveniences when it wasn't warranted, in order to avoid setbacks in production, she also had a feeling that he wouldn't mind causing a little trouble and now and then as he seemed capable of it. After all, ghosts were known to create mischief.

Jovan was abruptly pulled out of her thoughts when she felt something hit the side of her head. It wasn't something hard but it was enough to knock off her beret and it fell to the floor. A cloud of white powder surrounded her as she reached out to touch the side of her head. When she pulled away her hand, it was covered in powdered rosin. She realized her red locks were covered with the white powder as well.

She gave a look of disgust. This was the powder that the ballerinas used to rub on the tips and heels of their shoes before they went onstage. In the distance, laughter rang out from a small group of girls. Jovan counted them ― there were three of them. She immediately recognized one of them to be Maeva, whose hands were covered with powdered rosin as well, a clue that pointed her out as the suspect.

"Oh! I'm so sorry, Jovan. I didn't see you there!"

Jovan felt her blood boil as she grit her teeth. She began to tremble with rising anger. This was just childish! She could bear Maeva's verbal harassment on any day but this was just going too far. It wasn't her damn fault that Hector was sacked! There was no reason either for the ballerina to envy her! Or was this simply their poor idea of a joke?

She knew better than to fight back, however. Amir was near, and, though she was unsure whether he had caught Maeva's little crime, Jovan doubted he'd miss it if she were to retaliate, and the last thing she'd want to see was the disappointment in his eyes when he saw that she was as no good as the ballerina. He wasn't the lead stagehand for nothing ― he led them with diplomacy and, while he wasn't afraid to lecture his stagehands once in a while, he was also known for his lenient nature. Jovan would hate to crush his heart when he had been nothing but good to her.

Instead, she picked up her beret, which was also covered with the white powder, and walked up to Amir, taking in deep breaths along the way to calm herself. He instantly noticed her appearance despite his problem with the counterweights.

"What happened, Jo?" he asked, fixing his eyes at her powdered hair with a confused stare.

"It's powdered rosin," she simply said. "Can I go clean myself up for a while?"

Amir looked like he wanted to further question her, but the look in Jovan's eyes were begging for him not to. So he simply gave a nod of his head and gave her ten minutes to clean herself up. Jovan left the backstage without wasting another minute.

It was three in the afternoon when Gemma Thorpe entered the auditorium with a vexed look on her face. The English painter immediately rushed to a trio of stagehands whom she accused of stealing her paint again. Jovan recognized the trio of stagehands as the troublemakers who loved to mess around with the backdrop painter ― on more than one occasion, they had stolen her paints, brushes, and even her shoes some months ago. There was enough reason as to why they were immediately pointed out as the suspects.

But as Gemma began her tongue-lashing, the three stagehands had never looked more confused than they did at that moment. They remarked that they were innocent this time but Gemma was having none of it.

"You had to take the bloody bucket of blue, of all colors!" the painter shrieked while Monsieur Lefèvre patiently waited for her to finish. After all, he knew whenever his employees were due a scolding. Jovan watched with a grin as one of the trio went down on his knees to plead his innocence but Gemma refused to be moved. Onstage, Madame Giry and her ballet corps turned a deaf ear to the English painter's tirade as they went on with their routine.

Jovan couldn't help but scowl when she saw Maeva twirl towards the center stage but not before the ballerina shot a nearby fellow ballerina a dirty look. She couldn't even imagine what she had done to earn the ballerina's attention earlier that morning. Maeva had always taken to teasing her within their shared room only. The instance that morning was the very first time Maeva progressed to acting out her anger on Jovan. The redhead gave a sigh ― she didn't want to have to deal with an ill-natured ballerina with a grudge when there were worse things to worry about...

Like Gemma Thorpe's bucket of blue paint. At that point, the painter had grown silent as she actually began to listen to the three stagehands' explanations. They had been busy repairing the fly system all morning that they had missed any opportunities to slip away from their tasks to create trouble, they explained. Jovan had never heard them this sincere. Doubt began to visibly creep into Gemma's features. If they didn't steal her paint, then who did?

Madame Giry ordered for her dancers to stop just as Maeva performed a jeté. The ballet headmistress pointed to her. "Your arms are wrong. You're too stiff ― you look like a bird."

The moment the last word left Madame Giry's lips, a mass of blue liquid descended from above the stage. Blue paint fell from an unseen source towards one of the ballet rats below as Jovan's mouth fell open. In the blink of an eye, Maeva was coated, from head to toe, in dripping, blue paint.

The orchestra fell silent as so did every person in the theater. Gemma Thorpe looked ready to throw another fit as Maeva stood frozen in her spot. Madame Giry could only look on in horror at the disaster before her. From her spot near the entrance to the backstage, Jovan felt a wicked mixture of panic and satisfaction flare in her chest.

A second passed. An anguished scream tore its way out of Maeva's throat.

A voice echoed off the tunnels that led to his dwelling as Erik continued to run his fingers across his organ. He was livid in his playing, the notes escaping the keys reflecting his state of mind as they menacingly thundered throughout the room. Erik didn't stop to turn even when he heard Antoinette's furious footfalls come to a stop in his lair.

"Erik! Erik, listen to me, you―"

He tuned out her voice until the music overwhelmed him once again. It swept him away from his spot on his bench and into a world only he had the pleasure of knowing. A world of darkness, black as night and black as his soul, a thousand screaming faces surrounding him as their screams faded to white noise and the music he created overpowered them. But his demons were fierce, and they fought back with all their might, screaming his name, screaming of his past, screaming about the blood on his hands―

"ERIK!"

His fingers stumbled across the keys as his name slipped from Antoinette's lips. The hymn ended with a loud, discordant bang as Erik's fingers shook in the aftermath of the intensity of his mania. He gripped his hands into fists to still them before he sucked in a steadying breath. He ran a hand to smooth his hair before he found his voice.

"I apologize, Antoinette. I did not notice your arrival―"

"Didn't you, Erik?" the woman snapped at him. Erik turned away from his organ to see the stern headmistress standing near the edge of the lake. "What happened back there?"

His eyebrows furrowed and he stood up from the bench, making his way down the steps and towards Antoinette. "You'll need to be more specific, madame."

Antoinette's small framed trembled with anger as Erik approached her. He knew very well what the ballet headmistress was talking about, and all of his attention was instantly redirected in using every ounce of his self-control to not smirk in satisfaction at that very moment. Soon, the thought of his irate composition from earlier was pushed out of his mind, forgotten.

Antoinette took a brief moment to calm herself before she gave a reply. "Erik. During rehearsals. Gemma Thorpe's missing blue paint. Maeva. Was that you?"

He gave a thoughtful hum. "Oh, that. Yes, I'm afraid so."

Antoinette heaved a sigh as Erik tried not to falter under her scalding stare. She looked like she could murder him on that very spot at that very moment. He noticed that the hem of her skirts had small splashes of blue paint on it. Her dress had to be the only thing that he felt sorry for, not his actions and certainly not for Maeva.

"May I ask why?" the ballet headmistress asked with a tired tone. She didn't even know why she bothered to ask when it wasn't unlike Erik to cause trouble without a reason.

Truth be told, Erik wasn't looking for a reason to create mischief until he saw what Maeva had done to a certain red-haired stagehand. He had simply been brainstorming in the darkness of the rafters as to what trouble he could cause on that day and who would be the poor victim to his actions when he witnessed Maeva's little crime. Suddenly, he found the perfect prey to his vile little plan. And, boy, did she deserve what came for her.

"Other than the fact that your ballet rat's a pompous, deplorable excuse for a human being? I just happened to witness her commit a crime this morning."

"A crime?"

"She subjected to torment a person most undeserving of such vile treatment."

Antoinette arched a brow. "And who are you to judge who's worthy and unworthy of the respective treatments that they receive?"

Erik recalled the very second that he felt his temper flare, the same second the powdered rosin hit Jovan's head. If there was something he was absolutely sure of, it was that Jovan didn't need to suffer through the devilry of a grudge-bearing ballerina when she had arrived to the Opéra Populaire in search of sanctuary in the first place. And if there was one person in the entirety of the opera hose who could empathize with Jovan's plight, it was Erik. Weren't they both pariahs hiding from the world outside, after all?

"Between Maeva Grosjean and Jovan Rousseau? It's an easy verdict to make, I must say."

Erik watched with amusement as Antoinette's features contorted into bafflement then shock upon hearing his words.

"What do you know about Jovan Rousseau?" she hissed.

Erik gave a grin as he walked away from Antoinette and towards one of his shelves, where he began to sift through his vast collection of books. "We talked about it once."

"Talked about it? Or do you mean you bullied information out of her?" Antoinette spat as she followed Erik. There was no way that she was going to believe that Jovan would so easily spill her secrets to the Phantom. Which brought another thought to Antoinette ― did they already meet? If so, how? When? Where? How many times already?

"I prefer the term 'interrogation,' mind you," Erik answered as he pulled out a collection of Shakespeare's sonnets from his shelf. "Her words, to be exact, were 'I'm hiding from someone terrible out there who is after me for all the wrong reasons.'"

Antoinette began to fume as he opened the book in his hands and began to thumb through its pages. Before she could stop herself, she grabbed the book from Erik's grasp and slammed it shut with a resounding echo. She met Erik's glare with one of her own and spoke just as he opened his mouth to do so. "Interrogated her, Erik? Tell me exactly what happened."

"Oh please, Antoinette. Don't stress yourself ― I didn't scare her. That much, anyway. Besides, she brought it upon herself. She wasn't as careful as a person in her place is supposed to be."

"She brought it upon herself?" She gave Erik a look of disbelief. "Wasn't as careful ― explain!"

Erik snatched back the book from her with a snarl. "The girl's too clever for her own good! The first time I approached her, she reacted rather fearlessly. Not only that, but she also proved to have quite the sharp tongue and a quick-witted mind to go with it. Those traits of hers were enough to raise alarms because, let's be honest, the stagehands are not a bright lot, perhaps save for three or four of them."

"But prodigies can appear in the oddest of places, Erik. You, of all people, should know that very well," Antoinette remarked with a pointed look at him.

Erik gave a roll of his eyes and turned away from the ballet headmistress' piercing stare. "I'm not a fool, Antoinette. But you can't blame me for thinking that she was a spy of sorts or something of the like. And it didn't seem to me like she was making any effort to hide her intellectual capacity. Besides, you know me ― it doesn't rest well with me to know nothing about the people who work in my opera house, and when Jovan Rousseau arrived, she was a clean slate. Regarding her appearance as well, I didn't know what to think of it ― is she in disguise or not?"

Antoinette rubbed her temples. "She dresses the way she does to avoid attention."

"She's failing spectacularly. The opposite's happening. Although I can't blame her ― she's a distracting sight."

She didn't even want to mull over Erik's last words; she didn't know whether he was being sarcastic or not. She raised a hand to stop him from speaking any further, indicating that she'd heard all that she needed to at the moment. Besides, Antoinette did trust Erik, no matter how much he made her head hurt.

"It's been a trying day, Erik. I trust that despite all this, you remain within your limits. You know what I mean. Because the moment that something suspicious happens to that girl, I won't hesitate―"

"Yes, yes," Erik cut her off with a dismissive wave of his hand. Too tired to argue, Antoinette merely rolled her eyes before she stomped her way out of his lair.

Jovan skipped dinner that night. Something about the food just didn't appeal to her, and it resulted in her leaving the table before everyone could even take their seats. She was grateful that no one followed her, not even Elea who had been grumbling earlier how that day's rehearsals left her ravenous. Once she arrived to her dormitory, Jovan was relieved to see that she would have the room all to herself for at least an hour. Not a single soul occupied the room, not even Maeva who was probably still stuck in the baths, busy scrubbing off the blue paint from her skin. What a hellish ordeal that had to be.

A small smile curved her lips at that thought. While she did feel sorry for the ballerina, that emotion was only there for the shortest of moments. After all the verbal harassment and the scene with the powdered rosin, Jovan found it hard to feel pity for Maeva for so long. But that didn't mean that she was going to allow herself to feel happiness for Maeva's misfortune as well. That would just make Jovan no better than the ballerina.

The moment Jovan reached her bed, she sank into it with content moan. While she couldn't be bothered to remove her boots just yet, she was careful though to make sure that they did not dirty her sheets. She pulled off her beret and removed her hair from its bun. With her hair hanging loose, Jovan couldn't help but remember her earlier ordeal of having to clean the powdered rosin from her red locks. Now that her hair reached a bit past her shoulders, she considered cutting it again to the same short length that it had when she arrived to the Opéra Populaire. Jovan ran a hand through her locks ― while she did adore her hair, its color didn't help in keeping attention away from her, not when she was the only redhead in the opera house.

That notion was quickly forgotten however when Jovan felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She felt a piercing stare land on her as she quickly sat up, only to be greeted with the sight of Erik's dark figure looming over her bed.

"You! How did you even get in here?" she demanded, her eyes darting to the door. It was locked, just as she had left it before she entered the room.

Erik rolled his eyes. "What part of 'Opera Ghost' do you not understand, mademoiselle?"

Jovan gave a snarl as she scooted towards the edge of her bed. "Maeva and the blue paint ― that was your doing wasn't it?"

"Not one to beat around the bush, are you?"

"Depends. Why did you do it?"

He began to pace around the room with a scrutinizing eye pointed towards the beds and trunks. "Do I need a reason?"

"I guess not," Jovan quietly answered, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't know for whom you did it for or if you even did it for somebody but, nevertheless, I want to thank you for what you did to Maeva."

She heard Erik scoff as he took slow steps towards Christine's nightstand. On it was a book which he picked up and began leafing through. "My pleasure. The little brat deserved it, after all. You're not the only who's suffered under her shenanigans."

Jovan gave a nod. "I'm aware but I'm glad that I'm the last one that'll ever have to suffer because of her. That is, if your little trick worked in scaring the living daylights out of her to the point that she won't attempt to bully another person in this place ever again."

"If my little trick didn't work, she can say goodbye to her place in the ballet corps."

Jovan felt a shiver at his words. She watched as he closed Christine's book and gently put it back in its place on her nightstand. While she was not a fan of dead air, she was willing to let silence reign in the room during this one time as there was simply nothing else to talk about, nor was she about to start another conversation with the Phantom.

At that point, her feelings about him were still very much unclear. Having to feel fascination and fear at the same time whenever he was around was a funny feeling. On one hand, she did enjoy their banter and hearing him speak was a pleasure to the ears. He wasn't too bad for the eyes either ― she honestly didn't mind the mask, not when it simply added an air of mystery to him. The half of his face that was uncovered though... Jovan would be lying if she said that she didn't think him handsome. But she would never admit that out loud; the Phantom seemed conceited enough as he was.

He sauntered towards her bed and Jovan felt herself shifting uncomfortably under his gaze, his eyes intense as always. He stopped a foot away from the edge of her bed and reached for something within his cloak. His hand came out with a rose red apple in his grasp, his arm outstretched towards her.

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, her eyes demanding an explanation from the Phantom.

Erik rolled his eyes. "I can't have one of my stagehands go to bed without eating something. It could affect their performance the next day, and I would hate for an accident to occur that would only result in another setback in production."

Jovan eyed the apple in his hand with a curious gaze, what sweet flesh it hid behind its rosy skin. Her first thought had been that it was poisoned, but she quickly banished that thought, a stray and rather ridiculous notion brought about by the influence of reading too many fairy tales in her childhood. But the writer in her couldn't help but regard the fruit with the numerous meanings it held ― temptation, discord, beauty, knowledge, sin, purity...

When a moment passed where Jovan remained unresponsive, Erik simply heaved an impatient sigh before he tossed the apple towards her. She barely caught it with a startled groan as she was pulled away from her thoughts. She stared at him with curiosity, not knowing whether to thank him. He parted his lips to speak.

"It's not poisoned, if that's what you were wondering."

Author's Note: The song Elea sings is 'Conqueror' by Aurora. Also, I used a quote here from a really famous TV show (and a favorite of mine too)! Can you guys spot it? And if you've any questions, don't be afraid to leave them in a review below!