Author's Note: Thank you so, so much to everyone who sent in reviews and who gave their opinions on my portrayal of Erik! I was so pleased to hear from you guys that I'm doing a good job with Erik and that you like my interpretation of him! As for this chapter, this is one of the longest that I've ever written on this website (I don't know what happened, don't look at me). Let me know what you think of it when you're done, alright? And try not to forget to breathe while reading this one. Enjoy!

Kawaii-Shishiza: My mouth was hanging open at 6AM while I was listening to the song because, oh my God, the lyrics just so perfectly fit Erik and Jovan's situation! Like, seriously, I was so shocked at the accuracy. I'm definitely adding that song to this story's playlist. Also, it's deeply flattering to know that this fic always comes to your mind whenever you hear that song. I'm considering your comment as one of the highest compliments I've ever received on any of my works, thank you!

MarieUni: Oh my gosh, thank you so much for your review! And I'm so glad to see someone who similarly enjoys slow burn stories because they are, in my opinion, also the best! As for some Phanfics, the ones I'd recommend are the ones listed under my Favorites on my profile. Though my favorite one has to be Coquillage Atlas' Ink, Invisible ― their portrayal of Erik feels very real and is simply compelling, the OC is a one-of-a-kind heroine, and the romance is a subtle but enjoyable one. It's absolutely worth checking out!

( twenty-five )

NIGHT IS BLIND

He found her in Box Four.

Erik had been conducting his usual round of the opera house, his senses heightened by the darkness that enveloped him, when he finally arrived at the corridor that led to the row of boxes. It was part of his routine to check every single one of them, no matter how arduous or repetitive of a task it was, but it was for the best, Erik knew, since the last time he'd caught something unsavory occurring in his opera house, it had been a stagehand trying to force himself on one of the ballet rats. Erik had caught the two somewhere in a darker part of the auditorium and he had notified Madame Giry before the trouble could escalate. He could only be thankful that he had not been too late.

The hallway was dark but it was not an obstacle for Erik's astute sight. He'd grown up in the shadows after all, practically thrived in the darkness which he had learned, over time, to use to his advantage. As he pushed in a door of another box, his gaze was immediately drawn to the soft glow of a candle atop one of the velvet chairs. Behind it was a familiar face, the edges of her unmistakable figure softly blurred by the darkness surrounding her.

Jovan looked ready to spring up at any second when her eyes met Erik's. There was alarm in them, and he watched as it dwindled away before being replaced with relief and indignation. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles as she glared at him.

"A knock would have been nice, you lunatic," she bit out as she fell back on the floor.

Erik pushed the door all the way through and stood in the doorway, the candlelight adding an eerie glow to his white mask. "I beg to differ. A knock would have only startled you more."

"Eh." Jovan gave a wave of her hand from her spot on the floor. Erik saw, on the chair before her, that she had not only brought a candle with her but also some paper, a pen, and an inkwell. So she was writing. Hardly surprising, even given the late hour, since Erik himself was a willing victim to his passions even if the hour was an ungodly one.

He had half the mind to scold some sense into her, to make her see how idiotic her idea was of lurking around the opera house at night, especially since she was on her own, but Erik stilled his tongue before a word could escape. There was a lingering suspicion that Jovan was drunk, but he dismissed the idea when he could not smell a trace of alcohol in the small space. His eyes fell on Jovan as she lost interest in him, and her focus returned to her writing, the pen settled between her fingers as she crossed out an entire line of what seemed to be a poem to Erik.

"Let's go out for a walk," he suddenly blurted out, causing Jovan to freeze as she raised her eyes to blink them at him.

"Pardon? A walk?" Jovan echoed, disbelief crossing her features.

"You do know what the word means, yes?" Erik snapped.

He felt Jovan's temper flare when her eyes narrowed at him. "Of course I do―"

Erik didn't give her the chance to finish as he swooped down without any warning and blew out her candle.

"Erik!"

They were plunged into total darkness in the blink of an eye. He heard her rise to her feet with a slight stumble, the sound of her boots slightly muted by the carpet below them. In the dark, Erik watched Jovan's faint outline as she gave her surroundings a frantic scan, one hand reaching for something in the pocket of her trousers. Matches, he presumed.

"I thought you could see in the dark," Erik drolly asked.

"That doesn't mean that I prefer walking around without any light!"

Erik grabbed the candle from the chair before she could reach it, and he heard her hand slam on the surface. Jovan made an indignant sound.

"We are going out," he stated in tone that left no space for negotiation.

"Are you mad?" Jovan hissed, but Erik was unfazed.

"Yes, and I've been told so many times. It's apparently one of my most endearing traits."

"I find myself wondering what on God's green Earth could have possessed you to fancy a stroll at such an unreasonable hour."

"I am the Opera Ghost, mademoiselle. I do whatever I want whenever I please."

The truth that Erik was not telling Jovan was that this walk was for her. He would just leave it for her to fathom herself, not doubting that she would realize it before the night would be over. During all of the times that he told her that he saw everything in his opera house, Erik meant it. And on the days that followed Elea's departure, he had not missed the change in her demeanor. Sulking for a long period of time was not something that Erik pushed past Jovan, and he knew it was only natural for her to be morose after her closest friend just left her, but Erik had grown genuinely concerned. It simply didn't sit well with him to watch Jovan be reduced to a moping shell of herself when such didn't suit her.

He'd watched as the smiles that curved her lips bore the faintest hints of sadness. Her laughter came in mere short bursts, even if it was that jovial stagehand friend of hers that she was speaking to. There where nights when he'd catch her wide awake even when all her roommates had fallen fast asleep a few hours ago, those green eyes of hers glued to the bed next to hers, the one that Elea used to occupy and the one that remained vacant for the time being. A shadow fell upon her fair face whenever a ballet routine was being rehearsed, and a hollow look found its place in her distant stare. It honestly worried Erik because the last time that she had acted this way was during the first few months following her arrival at the Opéra Populaire.

Indeed, even though she'd only piqued his interest two months after she arrived, it didn't go amiss that she was rather sullen as she adjusted to her new job as a stagehand. However, she had mostly hidden it behind a facade of aloofness. But Erik knew masks when he saw them, and it didn't take long for him to take notice of the sadness she always seemed to carry. The greatest piece of evidence arrived during one morning in the rooftop, one he still remembered with perfect clarity as she had bathed in the soft rays of the rising sun.

"I've been searching for God everywhere but I just can't find him."

Her present, demeanor, however, was worse. Her grief was no longer just in the subtle details, but it also manifested in her habits. While working in the rafters, Erik could only compare her to an automaton, moving mechanically with a mere curt nod whenever orders were given her way. The nights where she stayed up late only grew in number, either spent staring at the empty bed beside her or furiously writing away on parchment. Come morning, the shadows under her eyes were a testament of how much hours of the night she had wasted by not sleeping.

So Erik had decided that a change of scenery might help her.

Not that he'd been planning this walk for days, however. In fact, he had only come up with the idea the second he stepped into Box Four.

When he returned to his lair where he had left Jovan, Erik had with him a skirt and a wig. As he stepped into his home, he saw that the girl had not moved from where he left her, on a large armchair with his copy of The Count of Monte Cristo in her hands.

Erik cleared his throat to announce his return, prompting Jovan to lower the book on her lap before she arched a brow at him in question, eyeing, with an air of doubt, the things he held in his arms.

"Where did you get those?"

"The costume department," Erik provided.

"You stole from the costume department?"

He gave an innocent shrug. "I borrowed from the costume department. Be that as it may, these are from past productions. Rest assured no one shall be missing them."

Jovan rose from the armchair, gently placing down the book, before walking to Erik. He held out the skirt and the wig for her to see, and she took the garment first to inspect it. It was a walking skirt, much like the one she loved to use instead of an actual dress, only this one was a dark burgundy. Draping the skirt over her arm, she took the wig next, taking it from Erik with such caution that he was sure it was her first time to hold one. The wig was blonde, a light shade that Erik knew would complement her complexion.

"I'll help you with the wig. Get dressed first."

Much to his pleasant surprise, Jovan obeyed without so much as a retort or a question. She was wearing trousers and a white button-up shirt, her usual work clothes but minus the vest, only this was a fresh set she'd put on after everyone else had gone to bed and she'd gone out to write. She would only have to put on the skirt which Erik knew wouldn't take long. Less than five minutes later, she emerged from his bathroom donning the burgundy skirt while she held her neatly-folded trousers in one hand.

Erik instructed her next to neatly braid her hair into two braids. Again, she gave no questions as she proceeded to untie her hair from its untidy bun. As she ran her fingers through her locks to untangle them, Erik tried not to stare at the red curls that cascaded past her shoulders. It had been a year since she last cut it, and the tresses now ran past her shoulders, ending just a few inches above her shoulder blades, the longest she had allowed them to grow since she came to the opera house. But now that her hair reached that length, Jovan tended to tie it up before fully obscuring it from sight with her beret during work. To see it now unconfined and in plain view, Erik found himself wondering how her red locks would feel between his fingers―

Erik clenched his fist as he walked to his desk, dropping the wig there before taking out a wig cap from his pocket and dropping that too. Behind him, Jovan began to braid her hair. Drawing in a breath, he smoothed his hair back with his hands as if that would help empty his mind from the thoughts that were invading his head a moment ago. He wasn't quite sure were those thoughts had come from, nor did he know why they made his heart stutter. To distract himself, he left for his room and began to search the place for any hair pins.

He came back a few minutes later, and when he saw that Jovan had finished braiding her hair, he motioned for her to sit at his desk. She obeyed, her lack of a comment surprising him once more as Erik realized that he wasn't actually pleased with the silence that hung in the air. Passing her a hand mirror he had also taken from his room, he began to pin back the braids flat against her head.

"You're uncharacteristically quiet," he pointed out.

"There's nothing to talk about," was Jovan's casual reply.

"I made tea earlier."

"I don't want tea." There was a small tinge of disgust in her tone, and Erik had to wonder why she disliked tea of all things.

"It's not for you, it's for me."

"Then why did you tell me that you made tea?"

"It's a nice start for a conversation."

"No, Erik. It's a nice start for an argument."

"Is there a difference?"

Erik felt that Jovan wanted to turn her head ― to glare daggers at him, no doubt ― but he held her in place so he could finish his work. Once the last pin had been put in place, firmly placing her braids flat across the back of her head, he proceeded to place the wig cap on her.

"Are we really arguing over tea?" Jovan asked incredulously.

"We're arguing, alright." At least she was talking now, Erik noted with a twitch of his lips.

"Only because you're so good at it." He could practically hear her roll her eyes when she spoke, and Erik refrained from chuckling as he took the wig from his desk.

"So are you," Erik replied as he fitted the wig on Jovan's head.

"Nothing better than a nice argument to get the blood rushing, don't you think?" came her sarcastic reply.

"Not the only way though," Erik answered and bit his tongue the moment the words came out, realizing that he had just said a possible double entendre if one looked deep enough into his words. Relief flooded his veins though when he saw that Jovan didn't seem to notice, her hand raising the mirror in her hand as she stared at Erik's work with her hair and the wig.

There was a strange glint in her green eyes as Jovan inspected her reflection. Erik recognized it as stupefaction and unfamiliarity, a combination that lent a haunted look to Jovan. He did have to admit that with her red hair out of sight and replaced with blonde tresses, Jovan looked like an entirely different person. No one would be able to persuade him now that this was the same girl who had punched a stagehand almost two years ago, nor would he willingly believe anyone who told him that she ran around the rafters of the Opéra Populaire wearing men's clothes. And with that, Erik knew that he had triumphed in creating a passable disguise.

"I look... This isn't me," she remarked in an indecipherable tone.

"That is the aim of a disguise, yes?" Erik answered. "Now come. The night isn't getting any younger."

Jovan wasn't quite sure why she ended up agreeing to Erik's ludicrous suggestion of walking outside at night, but now she found herself not regretting that he had succeeded in swaying her.

They had left through another passageway that led to the back of the opera house, in a dark corner where too many shadows had gathered that no sober person in the distance would be able to notice a soul slipping by. As Jovan stepped out of the shade, it was much to her relief and delight when she saw that the street before her was devoid of any other presence besides hers and Erik's.

The cool night air pervaded the empty street. Jovan felt Erik step to the spot beside her as she took in her surroundings with a quiet breath of wonder, the cobblestone beneath their feet faintly illuminated by a streetlamp not far from where they stood. As Jovan took a step forward, it then hit her that this was the first time that she would be stepping out of the Opéra Populaire in almost two years. The thought made her dizzy, and her breathing hitched as her gaze fell, her hands trembling from beneath the hooded cloak that Erik had lent her.

Two years?

"Something wrong?" Erik's cool tone broke the silence.

"Nothing," Jovan lied even if she knew that Erik would see through it anyway. Everything was wrong, she wanted to say. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine that she would find herself in these circumstances ― living far from home, hiding from someone, staying among the working class, having her morality constantly questioned... There was a painful stab in her chest as she grabbed her right hand with her left one in an attempt to stop the shaking. Her vision began to blur with tears once more but she blinked them back, exasperated at herself for how much tears she'd wasted ever since Elea left.

How did it all lead to this? This was not a question she frequently confronted herself with because it always faced her with an almost unbearable ache when she had to look back at the events that had transpired to lead to her current situation. Jovan didn't want to go down memory lane, the night was too good for that, and she drew in deep breaths to calm the roaring in her chest. She felt a shadow looming over her and Jovan looked up to see that Erik had inched closer, the concern visible in his dark expression. She forced out a chuckle, a warmth settling in her chest as it drove out some of her apprehension when she met his amber and green eyes.

Everything was wrong, she wanted to stay. But maybe she was wrong, now seeing the enigma of a man beside her. Jovan would not admit it aloud now, but she was utterly grateful to Erik. With him, breathing just seemed a little bit easier than the previous moment when he wasn't there. She mustered a smile just for him, shaking her head to dismiss his worries. She squared her shoulders, dropped her hands to her side, and scanned the street with a curious eye.

"What time is it?"

"It's three in the morning," Erik answered.

"We've been awake for that long?"

"Funny how fast time flies, is it not?"

Erik then offered his arm to Jovan, and she took it without question. He wore his cloak and his hat, which was tipped lower on one side to shadow the mask resting on his face. They quietly decided on a slow pace as they strolled under the soft glow of the few streetlamps that littered the street, the silence undisturbed save for her footfalls (Erik was always quiet whenever he walked ― she could not fathom how he had mastered such a skill). Jovan took her time to inspect her surroundings as they made a good distance from the opera house, the closed shops and buildings that they passed by going unmissed by her gaze. Very little had changed, Jovan noticed, yet everything no longer felt familiar, and whichever corner they turned, she felt like a ghost who was aimlessly wandering. There was barely another soul awake to witness her, and she never felt more insignificant than she did at that moment. But at the same time, it was an oddly pleasant feeling, to be free from the judging eyes of society and to feel as if she were one with the night and the silence.

She felt free.

"So your mother was a novelist?"

"Didn't anyone tell you that eavesdropping is rude?"

A deep chuckle rumbled in Erik's chest as Jovan arched a brow at him. Of course he had eavesdropped on her conversation with Elea on the day that the latter left the opera house. Old habits die hard, Erik supposed, but he just couldn't resist the possibility of learning something from Jovan's hazy past. And he was right ― while the two were saying their goodbyes, Elea had indeed dropped a few clues that helped to shed a little light on the dark pages of Jovan's history. One of the more interesting things that he'd learned was that Jovan's mother had written a book, hence why he brought it up now.

"I have no interest in being polite," Erik answered.

"You have no interest in acting like a normal human being."

"But being a ghost is much more fun."

Jovan was no longer holding on to his arm but she was walking a few feet away from his right, half of her attention taken by the bushes that she was passing by. They had happened upon a park during their night stroll, and Erik watched as Jovan eyed the roses on the shrubs with a twinkle in her eyes.

"Jovan," Erik prompted, unable to hold in his curiosity. Sure, it was no wonder now where Jovan's talent came from ― if she didn't inherit her father's skill for music, it only made sense that she got her way with words from her mother ― but the matter was just too intriguing. A female writer? It was unheard of, extremely rare, and something that society even considered to be rather scandalous. Erik didn't share their narrow views, of course, there was absolutely nothing wrong to be found with a woman being a writer. He wondered though how Jovan's mother handled the whispers that surely surrounded her because of her occupation.

"She wrote a book before she married my father," Jovan's reply came after a beat. "The Hanged Man was its title, a story about the power struggle between the members of a highborn family while the youngest son falls for a courtesan."

Erik grinned. "I imagine that must have made quite an uproar."

"It did," Jovan answered with a smile as she knelt down before a shrub. "She had wanted to publish it under a pseudonym, but the publisher advised against it. It became a bestseller, for both reasons that a woman had written it and that its plot was simply a compelling one."

Erik could hear the pride lacing her tone as she narrated her mother's work. As he listened, a memory rose to the surface of his consciousness, of one morning when he saw Jovan in the chapel. She wasn't praying, he remembered, but she was reading a poem she had written, an elegy. He remembered that when she mentioned her parents, it was with an inkling of fondness, her voice free of any trace of bitterness. The same still happened now, Erik noticed, as she recalled her mother with a warmth in her words. He could only wonder what made such tenderness possible, as Erik had only known the screams and the beatings of his mother when he was a child, and found himself unable to evoke the same affection Jovan clearly held for her mother.

When he felt ice building up in his veins, Erik cleared his mind of the shadows that began to collect in his thoughts. Instead, he took note of the title that Jovan mentioned, telling himself that he would search for it later.

"You do know that that's prohibited," he remarked when he heard a rustling from where Jovan was. She had knelt down on the sidewalk and was reaching for something in the shrub before her. Erik presumed that she was trying to pluck one of the white roses growing amid the viridescent leaves.

"What are you going to do, send me to the gendarmes?" Jovan scoffed before rising to her feet. As Erik approached her, she turned to him with a rose in her hand, its white petals in full bloom and its alluring scent reaching Erik's nose.

"My, my. I'm afraid you've been spending too much time around me. I can only fault myself for the dastardly habits that you seem to have picked up from me," Erik berated her with an air of playfulness.

Jovan was holding the rose in a spot where the thorns were absent. There was a light scratch on her other hand from where she'd been fumbling with the bush. "Worry not. I assure you no one will be missing a harmless, little rose."

Erik gave an amused hum as they resumed walking, this time with Jovan closer to him as she toyed with the rose in her hands. "I didn't think you had it in you to actually go out and leave the opera house at times," remarked Jovan after a moment's passage.

"Now why would you think that? I do have to buy groceries, you know." Erik rolled his eyes.

"I thought you only pilfered the kitchens and the pantry."

He narrowed his eyes at Jovan. "Where do you think all those francs from my salary go to?"

"...Your clothes?"

"My clothes?"

"I bet you have them tailored."

Well, Erik did have his clothes tailored, he would have nothing but the finest after all, but he wasn't about to admit that out loud. Instead, he gave a mere shrug of his shoulders.

The silence enveloped them again, only punctuated by Jovan's footfalls on the sidewalk. As far as Erik knew, they seemed to be aimlessly walking, his feet simply following where Jovan seemed to be going. She didn't seem to have a particular destination in mind, and if she did, she had yet to tell him about it. Erik didn't bother to ask, having something else on his mind.

"I heard you speaking with Monsieur Lefèvre the other day."

"Oh did you?" Jovan gave Erik a pointed look; he ignored it.

"You told him that you wanted to move to the costume department."

Jovan licked her lips with a nod. "I did. Thought I ought to finally put all those embroidery lessons to use."

"Why didn't you just choose to do that from the beginning?"

A brief moment passed where Jovan gave no response. She seemed to be considering what reply she would give Erik. He still remembered the day when she had talked to Monsieur Lefèvre regarding what job she would take inside the opera house. A place among the instrumentalists, ballet corps, or singers was immediately thrown out the window when Jovan had admitted that she had no musical talents, and she only grew more adamant when Monsieur Lefèvre suggested that she try to audition. The manager had then offered her a place among the art department, but Jovan declined that too, remarking that she wasn't good when it came to art either, and that a minimum amount of socialization was something that she wanted in a job (this would not be possible if she joined the art department, seeing that the staff working in that area always had to be onstage to help with the set design and scenery).

"I didn't really want to put up with costuming all those girls in the closed spaces of the dressing rooms," Jovan finally answered after a full minute's passage. "I didn't have the patience before either to deal with all that sewing and stitching."

"You're not patient when it comes to details, are you?" Erik was beginning to learn this as he also recalled Jovan's disinterest when it came to playing instruments, something that required focus to its smallest facets. For example, a misplaced finger could produce the wrong note and end up ruining a whole piece.

"It depends, I guess," was Jovan's quiet answer. "I could learn."

Erik gave a thoughtful hum at her words as he wondered how different things could have been if she'd just taken up being a seamstress from the start. Monsieur Lefèvre's stupefied reaction came back to Erik's mind when the manager had heard of Jovan's suggestion that she join the stagehands. Erik himself had raised a brow at the idea while he was hidden in the passageway leading to the manager's office. Meanwhile, Monsieur Lefèvre had gone on to list off the dangers of a girl working among men in an opera house. Sadly, Erik was unable to hear what Jovan had to say to Monsieur Lefèvre to persuade the manager to let her have the job among the stagehands, seeing that she had led him away from his office once he was done with his tirade before they proceeded to continue their conversation in hushed voices that were just too low for Erik to hear and decipher.

He'd been so lost in thought that Erik had failed to realize it when he and Jovan came upon a new scene. Gone was the road beside the park, and the streetlamps had significantly decreased in number as the two of them stood submerged in the shadows for the moment. He saw that Jovan had stopped walking and that he had unconsciously followed suit. As Erik trained his gaze further away, to where Jovan's distant gaze had wandered, he saw that not far from where they stood was the cemetery.

She tried not to hold her breath as she walked in the cemetery.

With every turn she took, there were always sculptures of angels, hooded figures, and praying saints awaiting Jovan, looming over her in their large stature as if they were sentinels watching over the dead. The gray marble looked pitch black to her under the curtain of night, adding an eerie gloom to what was already a bleak place. Even in their multitudes, the statues only served to make Jovan feel more alone, with Erik's strong presence by her side only a small reminder that that wasn't the case.

Silence became their other companion ever since she and Erik stepped foot into the cemetery, and neither of them had dared to speak a word since them. Though the quiet hung heavy around them, Jovan did not dare to break it, and Erik seemed to share the same partiality. Something unspeakable hung between them the moment Jovan knew that her own feet had led the both of them to the cemetery, and whatever that was still remained unspoken. She hadn't always planned to go here, but it was just somewhere along the way that she decided that a visit to her family's resting place was only proper. But she wasn't only doing this because she felt obligated to do so, but also because she knew she needed it.

Her feet drove her, almost mechanically, to the place she had in mind. She knew the way like it was the back of her hand, scorched into memory by the countless visits that she used to make back when her mother and brother had died. Within a matter of minutes, she finally arrived at the place. Jovan realized that Erik no longer walked beside her but had began to trail a few feet behind her ― when exactly he began doing so she could not remember, but it seemed to her that he had done so to give her much-needed space, for which Jovan was quietly grateful for.

She stared at the mausoleum before her, the four Grecian pillars in its front and the dark, gaping hole in the middle that was the entrance. Jovan felt her breath hitch as her heart hammered, the memory of her years before coming to the Opéra Populaire coming back to her in a vicious flood that threatened to consume her in its current. As the cold night air nipped at the skin of her bare hands, Jovan felt moisture beginning to gather in her eyes, and she raised her eyes to prevent the tears from falling, but her astute gaze only found the name carved into the marble of the mausoleum, decipherable and clear as day even in the dead of the night.

SAUVETERRE

As Jovan stood before the mausoleum, Erik lingered not far behind her, taking in the new scene before him as his mind whirred with countless questions.

For a moment, he was back in the passageway leading to the dormitories, in that dark and dank tunnel with the red-haired stagehand before him. A rosy apple in her hand, Erik recalled the moment, with perfect clarity, that she had trusted him with what he knew to be an essential part of herself, a piece of who she was and who she had been in the past.

Nathalie Jovan Sauveterre.

Nathalie.

Erik had yet to try and call her by that name, though he was genuinely curious as to how she would react if he'd started doing so. However, he knew better than to try that right now, recognizing how important this moment must be to her after being holed up in the opera house for two years. He watched as Jovan began to fumble with something, reaching into something within her person that Erik could not see from his standpoint. After hearing what sounded like scratching, his sharp eyes picked up the soft glow of a light before Jovan. A candle, Erik realized, probably the same one that he had taken from her in Box Four. She had probably retrieved it when he'd placed it on his desk at his home before he left for the costume department.

It was then that Erik found his feet moving again as he warily walked towards Jovan. As he came to her side, he saw that she was indeed holding a lit candle in the same hand as the white rose. There were tears in her eyes threatening to spill, a quiet but pained look painting her features as she stared ahead at the mausoleum's entrance. Erik watched as she drew in a breath before she began to walk, her pace slow and cautious as she took short strides towards the entrance.

Erik kept his distance as he entered the mausoleum not long after she did. Of course it was dark inside, and the candle Jovan held was too insufficient to light the whole place up. But Erik knew that that was not why she had brought the candle, and his eyes followed her dark form as she neared the line of tombs to the left.

A few of the names lining the tombs became visible to Erik as Jovan neared the flame to the marble. The first that he saw was Raphael, which he recognized as the name belonging to Jovan's father as she had mentioned so before. Then there was Mila and Léon, the former of which he guessed to be her mother's while he was unsure of the latter.

"My father wanted me to work in the Opéra Populaire," Jovan's low voice echoed in the dark space. "Though not as a stagehand, I'm sure."

Erik was quick to pick up the hollowness in her voice, and he knew then that Jovan was not there with him, but she was lost in the past. He came closer to the tombs Jovan stood before and he studied the names carved into the marble.

"Not as a seamstress either, I believe," he answered.

"No." There was a small tremble in her voice as she spoke, accompanied with a small, shaky laugh. "But when he saw that pursuing music was not in my interest, he had understood..."

Erik saw the fair column of her neck move as she swallowed, trailing away with her words. He quietly waited for her to continue, his curiosity about her past almost insatiable now that she was finally opening up. Perhaps, finally, his questions about the enigma that was Jovan could finally be put to rest, much like the rot behind the tombs that surrounded him now. He was so close now...

"You know, when I first came to the opera house seeking refuge, I was so surprised when Madame Giry was so quick to let me in," Jovan continued, though Erik was startled with the small change of topic. "I didn't think the Opéra Populaire sheltered many runaways, so I was stunned at how familiar she seemed to be with my situation. But now, I understand. I see."

In the dark, Erik felt Jovan's gaze land on him, and his heart skipped a beat. By now, he knew that she was well aware of his connection to Antoinette (he didn't think she could easily forget how the ballet headmistress had stumbled upon them before) but he also knew that she just wasn't quite aware yet of how deeply his bond with Antoinette ran. He was actually surprised she had not brought the matter up after Antoinette caught them, nor did Jovan speak of it in the days that followed. Not until now.

When Erik didn't answer, Jovan continued. "She knew of you, Erik. Another person, much like me, who chose the Opéra Populaire as their hideaway. You, arguably the opera house's most important persona."

The question she wanted to say but kept silent about hung in the air, palpable and waiting to be answered, practically begging. Jovan's eyes had yet to leave Erik while his stare was still glued to the tombs in front of him. He knew of what Jovan wanted to ask, but did he want to answer? He had long come to terms with his own past, but to bring it out there to be heard by someone else, even just a small part of it, was entirely another matter. Could he be brave enough to bare the tragedy he hid behind his walls and his mask?

Erik turned his head and locked eyes with Jovan in the dark. And when he saw the tenderness swimming in those green hues of hers, only intensified by the soft glow of candlelight, he realized that he could.

Besides, he knew that before he could take, he also had to give.

"Antoinette rescued me," Erik quietly began. "I was one of the exhibits of a traveling freak show handled by gypsies. 'The Devil's Child,' they called me. They locked me up in a cage for people to gawk and laugh at. When we came to Paris, Antoinette and her ballet corps had dropped by for a visit. She was no older than sixteen when she took me away."

There was much more to that part of Erik's life, but he chose not to divulge any more at that moment. Not the name of the showman he had strangled prior to escaping, not the sack he had worn over his face as his mere protection against the people who came to gape at him, not the scars that now traced his body from the years he spent in captivity. Erik just couldn't bear to do so when he was just doing this for the first time with another person besides Antoinette. However, he knew to his credit, that it was a good start.

He waited, holding his breath, for Jovan's reaction as he refused to break his stare away from her. She seemed adamant to do the same, her lips parted as she bore an unreadable expression on her face. Then she spoke.

"What kind of life have you known since then?" Her voice, with its huskiness, sounded warm to his ears at that moment.

"Not an easy one," Erik replied. "It wasn't only you that God chose to left behind, Jovan."

The air stirred as Jovan's eyes left his, drifting back to the tombs and the names before her. There was an edge in her voice when she began to speak once more.

"You must have thought me foolish when I said that I was hiding because of my face," Jovan said. "Unfortunately, I still cannot take back what I said because it remains irrevocably true."

"Why so?"

Jovan shook her head, her gaze falling. "Ask me something else, just ― not that."

Erik acquiesced, and he raised a gloved hand to one of the names on the tombs and traced the letters. Léon. "Who's this?"

A heavy exhale left her, but Erik did not miss the small, upward twitch of her lips. "My younger brother."

Erik blinked. Not once had she mentioned that she had a younger brother, even if he was only eavesdropping on her conversations with Elea or Mateo.

"What happened to him?" he prodded. By now, Erik was sure that, while Jovan's past was a sensitive subject for her, particularly the reason why she was hiding, any matter regarding her deceased parents was one that she can tread on without any reticence. Erik could only hope that the same went for this younger brother that he was only hearing about now.

"He died shortly after my mother did during childbirth."

"Of what reasons?"

Jovan gave him a glance, and, in that brief moment, Erik managed to catch the faint glimmer of sympathy in the green of her eyes. Something about it made his heart clench, not in a terrible way. His pulse quickened as he wondered what Jovan had for an answer.

"You see, when my mother gave birth to me, there were a lot of complications. Though I was perfectly healthy when I was born, the doctors had told her that she was no longer fit for another child. I should be the first and last child she should attempt to have."

His eyes never left Jovan as she began to run a finger down the stem of the rose she held.

"Nine years later though, she was with child again. When she gave birth to Léon... well, like the doctors said, her body would no longer be able to take it. She died while giving birth. Léon, however..."

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if the act would lend her some strength.

"He was born too early. Not only that, but... I still remember the midwife's reaction when she first held him in his arms."

Erik tensed, the story sounding too familiar, hitting too close to home. "What was her reaction?"

"She screamed," Jovan whispered. "Father and I had immediately rushed to the room to see what had happened, and ― Mother was no longer breathing, yes, but that wasn't all. The midwife had immediately shoved my brother into Father's arms before running out of the room. I didn't know whom to approach first ― Mother or Léon... But when I came close to Léon..."

Erik didn't realize that he was holding his breath until he felt a flare in his chest. He noticed Jovan's fingers tightening around her candle.

"He was missing his nose and an eye. His nasal cavity was exposed..." Jovan drew in a shuddering breath in remembrance. "And he was small. He was so, so small..."

There was an urge to take a step back, to back away until he was out of the mausoleum and back under the dark, familiar canvas of the night. But Erik stilled himself and clenched his fists, waiting for Jovan's next words. There was ice building up in his veins, but if whether it was from fear, anger, sorrow, or damned sympathy... Erik refused to acknowledge it.

"He didn't last two days. But if he had... lasted much longer, I couldn't stop thinking―"

A hand flew to her lips as Jovan's head dropped. Erik didn't realize that a tear had fallen down her cheek until the light of the candle caught it. He couldn't understand ― why was she crying? Why didn't she finish? What had she thought of her brother? Was she disgusted with him―

"What?" Erik snapped before he could stop himself. Jovan's eyes found his, and he saw that there was the smallest glint of anger in them, before her gaze softened once more and left his.

He waited as Jovan bent and gently placed the white rose on the floor of the mausoleum. When she straightened up once more, she quickly wiped away her tears with the sleeve of her shirt.

"I couldn't stop thinking," she began, her voice regaining a tenacity that had been previously absent, "that had he lived, I would have done everything in my power to make sure that he would not have to hear anyone scream again when they looked at him. I would have done anything to take back the midwife's scream of horror that was the first thing he had to hear in his short life."

A chill rode up Erik's spine as he heard the muted anger lacing her words, the resolve and the regret that accompanied them. He could do nothing but stare at the revelation before him as the pieces fell into place, perfect and just waiting to be put together after all this time. It all made so much sense now ― the girl's audacity to engage him in conversation as if he were any other person on the night they first met, how she never ran away from him in spite of the vile stories that surrounded him, why she was so accepting of the mask that he wore that she barely seemed to mind it...

Something warm sang in his veins as he felt the world around him grow still. In that dark space surrounded by the dead, it was just Erik and Jovan then. As he stared at Jovan, the blonde locks of her wig falling to frame her face, her expression a portrait of both melancholy and silent fury, and the candlelight enlivening the spark in her dark gaze, Erik felt something snake and wrap itself around his heart. He saw a vine in his mind, its thorns pricking his chest, causing him to see red. But it wasn't the red of anger that he saw, it was the red of something else entirely...

The rustle of Jovan's skirt and cloak shook Erik out of his thoughts as she then turned on her heel and swiftly strode out of the mausoleum on steady feet. Left in the dark, Erik watched in silence as Jovan blew out the candle once she was outside before she pocketed it. There were no longer tears on her eyes, but there was a bright sheen in them, something that had been absent from her gaze these past few weeks. Erik's heart raced when she then turned back to him, her eyes meeting his in the dark.

"Come on, Erik. Let's go home."

Erik followed.