Author's Note: Reading all of your reviews, no matter how long or short, continues to inspire me for every day that I sit before my laptop to think and write. I am immensely grateful for all the wonderful things you guys have to say about my work! Also, a word of advice, enjoy these last few chapters before the plot thickens and shit hits the fan. This may also be the last weekly update that I'll be giving out. My classes are about to start in a few weeks (I'm entering twelfth grade!) which is... bad news, to be honest, where it concerns my writing. I have to begin spacing out updates by more than a week, maybe two weeks. Lastly, please take a moment to drop a review when you reach the end of this one!

MarieUni: No need to apologize! I actually have tons of fun whenever I get to read my readers' expectations! *wink*

crimsonbloodwitch: I wanna buy you a megaphone just so you can preach those words while standing on the shore of Erik's home.

( twenty-seven )

STRANGER THAN FICTION

"Mademoiselles, if you would please," Monsieur Reyer prompted the seamstresses, not unkindly, for them to finish their fussing with the prima donna, Sandrine Blanc, as she stood to the side of the stage in her costume. A few days away from another premiere, the staff of the Opéra Populaire were conducting a dress rehearsal that afternoon, and some adjustments were being made to the lead soprano's dress as she rehearsed her choreography to test whether her costume would give her the space she needed to move around the stage untroubled.

Jovan rose from behind Sandrine, having just finished examining the trail of the dress, before she returned backstage along with the other seamstresses so the routine could continue. As the first bars of the opera's second act began to play, Jovan found herself watching the prima donna in silent awe as Sandrine glided gracefully across the stage to the lead tenor on the other side. To see such finesse and gravity coming from the performers had always amazed Jovan, even after having seen so many taxing rehearsals where the singers and dancers had yet to perfect their acts.

"I must say, it is a pleasure to see you doing well with your new job."

The voice that reached Jovan's ears was masculine and had an air of playfulness to it. She looked over her shoulder to see Monsieur Lefèvre behind her, a small smile playing on his lips as he gave her a courteous nod.

"Monsieur le Manager," Jovan greeted him with a nod and a smile of her own. "I can only hope that the quality of my service is still up to your standards."

"It always has been and still is," Monsieur Lefèvre assured Jovan with a chuckle as he inched closer to her. "May I add that it brings me more ease than it did back when you were still working as a stagehand? At least your feet are now always planted on firm ground, and the company you now have is much more pleasant than that that the stagehands can offer to a person such as you."

Jovan gave a nod, her gaze drifting to the stage where the lead tenor began to sing. When a note escaped the male singer, one that sounded too sharp even for Jovan's ears, she tried not to wince. "It's not so bad, I see now," she replied to Monsieur Lefèvre, turning back to him. "Although I still refuse to help in the dressing rooms, and I leave all the talking to Jeanne and Briella," said Jovan, referencing the other two seamstresses that she worked with; it was with them that Jovan left the responsibility of talking to other people, be it ordering fabrics or the materials needed for the costumes or anything of the like. Even after the change of occupation, Jovan remained wary as ever with the people that she made contact with, careful to still keep herself hidden from any suspicious eyes.

"I understand, of course," Monsieur Lefèvre replied with a nod of his head. "I rather think tha―"

The manager was never able to finish his words when he was cut off by an anguished scream coming from the stage. Startled, Jovan's eyes darted to the source of the sound, and she saw that the lead tenor was down on the floor of the stage while a mass of red fabric sat atop him. She recognized the cloth to be one of the curtains that framed the sides of the stage. It had not-so-mysteriously fallen upon the unfortunate actor while he was singing, and he was now flailing beneath the thick and heavy fabric of the curtain while the people closest to him proceeded to help him out of his predicament.

"For the love of God!" The lead tenor looked like he was on the verge of tears when a stagehand tried to pull away the curtain, but only ended up burying the singer further beneath the mass of fabric.

Jovan caught the disapproving glance from Monsieur Reyer while the laughter coming from the dancers to the side echoed throughout the auditorium. It didn't take much effort to deduce who was behind the mishap ― recalling the singing that the lead tenor had just done, it was obvious that his performance was not up to the standards of the opera's resident ghost.

As the lead tenor stumbled out from under the curtains, Jovan found herself laughing along with her fellow staff. When she saw Monsieur Lefèvre out of the corner of her eye, she was more than stunned that the manager himself was smiling at the incident.

"Why, Monsieur le Manager," Jovan was unable to help herself as she turned to the man. "And, out of everyone, I thought that you would be the one who'd disapprove the most of our Opera Ghost's antics."

Monsieur Lefèvre gave her an amused smile. "No, mademoiselle, that would be Monsieur Reyer. After all, we all need a good laugh every now and then."

Jovan's lips parted in surprise; not once did she have the chance to speak to the manager about the Opera Ghost that now that the topic was being brought up, she couldn't help but be curious of Monsieur Lefèvre's thoughts about their Phantom.

"Aren't you bothered, monsieur, that you have a ghost practically running your own theater?" Jovan asked, keeping her tone light.

"Not a ghost, Miss Rousseau. Not a ghost," Monsieur Lefèvre replied. "But, of course, it bothered me at first. Yes, especially when I first came here four years ago. The gall of this scoundrel, I had thought at first, to make demands of me and to give criticisms where it was unasked for."

"Pardon me, monsieur, but you think that he's not a ghost?" Jovan played along but genuine curiosity laced her tone. Rarely did she come across someone in the opera house who shared her initial opinion that the Phantom was not a mere specter; seeing Monsieur Lefèvre think so was something that truly stunned her. But Erik did remark before that he had made sure that their manager was not a simpleton.

"Of course not, mademoiselle." He sent her a puzzled look. "I know it is the belief of many that he is a mere gho―... You don't share their opinion, do you?"

"N-no," Jovan said with a shake of her head. She never had, even when she first arrived at the opera house.

"Oh, good. It's nice to know that not everyone here is as gullible. Still, it's best that it remain the view of everyone else that our Phantom is nothing than what he claims to be."

"Why so, monsieur?"

Monsieur Lefèvre's eyes gleamed. "May I tell you a secret, Miss Rousseau?"

The manager's request made Jovan flinch with surprise, but she nodded her head. "Of course. I mean, if I can trust you with one of my own, you can trust me as well."

A thin-lipped smile crossed his face as his voice dropped to a whisper. "Would it surprise you to know that I've spoken to him before?"

This time, Jovan's flinch was mere acting done on her part. "He has?" she breathed, feigning shock as her eyes widened.

Monsieur Lefèvre nodded. "You'll find that our ghost will actually talk to people as long as they are willing to listen." Jovan couldn't agree more ― after all, hadn't Erik only proceeded to exchange banter with her when they first met because she refused to run away?

"When... when was this?"

"Early after I took over the position of manager. I was in my office one evening ― I had stayed late to tend to some letters ― when a voice began to talk to me. There was no one else in the room, so I assumed it had to be the Opera Ghost. Of course, my first instinct had been to run ― I mean, after all the ghastly rumors I've heard about the Phantom, it was the most sensible thing to do ― but I realized how futile that would be. The Opera Ghost simply wants to chat, why not listen?"

Jovan bit her lip to keep down a chuckle that was threatening to escape her mouth. Though Erik was very much an eccentric, she did notice his penchant for little chats ― it all depended on his mood. "And what did he want to speak to you about?" she prodded.

"He wanted for us to come to an agreement. See, the manager before me had not been as... accommodating, and the Phantom didn't want a repeat of that. So I listened. I sat in my office and simply listened. And all that time, I couldn't help but notice how... articulate the fellow was. It was there that I realized that this Opera Ghost could not be a ghost. He was a man."

Monsieur Lefèvre cleared his throat as he placed his hands behind his back. "Fortunately, we did come to an agreement that night. He learned of how highly I regarded the arts with respect; he learned that I was not as pigheaded and gullible as the last manager. I allow him to run my theater, Miss Rousseau, because I know that he knows what he's doing. The man is quite clearly a genius in the arts, if not in any other field. I even admire him for it ― why, it's only with his criticisms that we manage to bring in so much money because he's so keen with perfecting our operas. But he still does unnerve me so, at times."

"I can't imagine anyone who wouldn't be. He's... intense." Jovan fished for the right word, and found that the adjective perfectly described Erik.

The manager chuckled. "I'd say you were speaking from experience." Jovan's heart skipped a beat. "But, then again, you did work in the rafters for a while, and that's a place that the Opera Ghost loves to haunt."

Jovan couldn't help the laughter that rolled off her tongue. Relief shot through her veins. "Yes, yes."

"Oh, well." Monsieur Lefèvre shook his head. "Now, if I could only stop him from extorting money from our funds."

That only intensified the laughter bubbling in Jovan's chest.

It was during the afternoon of another Sunday when Jovan made the decision to visit Erik.

A few months had passed since their last feud, and things between them had rather returned to normal. Well, if one didn't consider the longer intervals that now sat between the time Jovan and Erik spent with each other, something that Jovan could thank her new job for. While working as a stagehand had been far more laborious, her new job as a seamstress was proving to be the time-consuming kind. While accuracy and attention were both requirements of the two jobs, working in the costume department also required perfection, from the last detail of embroidery on the costumes to how the fabric should sit still and snug against the performers' bodies. Fortunately, perfection was something Jovan was willing to strive for when it came to her work ― it was the least she could contribute to the opera house that she had long come to call her home, and it was not like she had a choice as well, seeing as Madame Strauss was every bit the perfectionist that the Opera Ghost was. So it was perfection that she worked long and hard for, even if her patience did not sometimes cooperate with her and even if it meant sacrificing some of her time with Erik to do her job as a seamstress.

On this Sunday though, she was taking a break from the costumes to lend some of her time to her friend. Not only that, but God knew how badly she needed the respite after working nonstop for two weeks. It was also during those two weeks that her job succeeded in keeping her apart from Erik, something that the man was rather unashamed in complaining about when he had used his ventriloquism during one afternoon in the costume workshop. While Jovan had been sewing, he had thrown his voice only for her to hear, his protests and dry comments reaching her ears but leaving her unable to reply unless she wanted the other seamstresses to deem her mad when they saw her talking to the empty air around her. Sure, they both had gone longer than two weeks without seeing each other, but that had been a long time ago and they had grown much closer since then.

When Jovan stepped into the cavern of Erik's home, the scent of candle wax almost instantly assaulting her sense of smell, her eyes immediately flew to his slim form seated before his organ. He was bent over the keys of the large instrument, but he wasn't playing, no. The silence resounding in the space told another story, and Jovan could only conclude that he was writing down notes or lyrics.

"How is it that you're always composing?" Jovan called out, a smile playing across her lips as she made her way to Erik.

"Hm?" he answered distractedly, not even gracing her with a glance behind his shoulder as he continued to write. Typical, Jovan thought with a shake of her head as she approached, and she began to see the movement and the flicks of Erik's wrist as he wrote away on a piece of parchment.

"I'm envious is all," Jovan replied honestly as she finally reached the behind of Erik's bench. When she tried to peek over his shoulder to see what he was working on, Erik moved in accordance, his shoulder moving in front of Jovan's line of sight to obscure whatever it was he was working on.

"It's not ready," he tutted as he finally glanced to look at her, a knowing but mischievous look flashing in his chimeric eyes. Jovan merely gave an innocent shrug in response and straightened, biting her lip to keep a smirk from curving them. "And why would you be envious?" Erik prodded.

"It's just ― how are you always creating something new? Who is your muse? Where do you get inspiration?" Jovan ended up whining as she eyed the papers on Erik's organ, his handwriting unmistakable on the parchment with its neat, elegant loops.

Erik gave a chuckle as he moved to gather a few of his scattered papers into a pile that he then turned over so Jovan could no longer see them. "I live in an opera house, Jovan. Paris' most prestigious one. I am surrounded by music almost everyday. Where do I indeed get inspiration, I wonder," came his sardonic answer.

"Music for music, of course," Jovan retorted with a roll of her eyes. "Unfortunately, I don't compose."

"Are you looking for answers from me?" Erik asked, shaking his head. "You really need to get out more if it's inspiration you're looking for."

A grin tugged on one corner of Jovan's lips. "Why, are you saying that you cannot be inspiring enough?" she chided him playfully.

"Ah, yes. With this devilish visage of mine, I would no doubt make for an invigorating muse." Jovan sensed a faint note of resentment in his tone but she ignored it; now was not the time for self-loathing, she wanted to tell Erik, not when she was doing her best to lighten the mood for both her own sake and that of Erik's. Besides, she doubted she could write anything good if she got inspired now by Erik's hatred for his appearance.

"If memory serves me right, I remember a certain someone telling me that they were both the Devil and the Emperor," Jovan remarked then watched as Erik slowly turned to her, the tip of his pen barely touching the parchment that he had abandoned for the moment in favor of her. She felt a wave of satisfaction roll through her now that she had fully claimed his attention.

"What are you on about?" Erik asked, though Jovan doubted that he had truly forgotten of that afternoon, the one where he had used the chapel as a place to preach about passion, but not before saying that he was both the Devil and the Emperor when Jovan had asked him what else he was. At the time, the remark had been so unexpected that it had completely thrown Jovan off guard, and her mind proceeded to forget all about it the next moment. But once she finally had time to herself again, time that she used to mull over Erik's cryptic words, she recalled the entirety of Erik's unfinished tale about the tragic love triangle that was the Star, the Devil, and the Emperor, and she remembered that the Star had used both the Devil and the Emperor as her muses.

Erik had wanted her to write about him, she came to the conclusion. And though that had been over two years ago, she had yet to forget Erik's intentions for her that afternoon in the chapel.

Jovan had to admit to herself though that writing about Erik was an extremely daunting task. For a man as gifted, complex, and enigmatic as he was, she couldn't even imagine how she could begin to do him justice with mere written words. At one point, she had even come to the verdict that he was just one of those people that couldn't be confined by words, no matter how poetic they could be.

"Indeed, what am I on about?" Jovan echoed his words as he continued to stare at her with a glimmer of confusion and curiosity in his eyes. "Admit it, Erik. Wouldn't it be such a wonderful thing to have someone write about you?"

Recognition flashed across his expression for the briefest of seconds but Jovan had caught it. "Depends on what they're writing about," Erik sneered as he resumed writing. "I should know ― some tabloids just love to expatiate on the gossip surrounding Opéra Populaire's infamous Phantom."

"But I don't want to write about the Opera Ghost," Jovan answered. "I want to write about Erik."

Erik's hand froze mid-stroke, and Jovan found herself holding her breath. When his eyes locked with hers once more, there was a familiar intensity burning in them, a sight that made a pleasant shiver crawl beneath her skin.

"Why would you even want to write about me?" he replied, his voice low and steady but free of any trace of bitterness.

Why not? Jovan wanted to answer. But instead, she situated herself right behind Erik's back and slowly, gently placed her fingers upon his back.

To his credit, Erik didn't react to her touch. When he had flinched the first time she touched his back, Jovan had chucked it to Erik being unused to touch, something that was extremely likely considering his isolation. But then he had told her a part of his past, of his time as the Devil's Child, and Jovan knew that it was not a stretch to think that he had also suffered a fair amount under the gypsies that had cruelly locked him up inside a cage.

Jovan realized that she was right as she began to trace his back with a feather-light touch. She felt the unmistakable ridges of scarred tissue, almost imperceptible if the skin wasn't raised. Erik wasn't wearing his waistcoat at the moment, donning a mere dress shirt that wrapped tightly against his lean form. Her lips parted in surprise as her fingers began to follow a scar, the length of the mark making it not hard to infer that the wound had come from the vicious bite of a whip.

In front of her, she could feel Erik holding his breath, the lean muscles of his back tightly coiled beneath her gentle touch.

"I think," Jovan began as the words began to tear around in her mind, "that you might have been an angel."

"...An angel?" Erik replied after a beat, an amused twinkle in his eyes that Jovan took as a sign to continue.

"Yes. You were one of heaven's most beautiful creatures, but also one of their most daring." While Jovan's mouth began to run, her mind was weaving a new story out of the old ones that she'd had the pleasure of hearing before. One of them was a lesser known tale of origin regarding the Opera Ghost, a story that she had heard from an older chorus girl during her first few weeks at the opera house. It was one of the stories that had not circulated much among the opera staff due to its far-fetched premise that the Opera Ghost was actually a scorned creature of God, a fallen angel in the same vein as Lucifer.

Jovan considered that particular story while she injected a few facets from the life of one of Greek mythology's many tragedies, a figure that was every bit the trickster that Erik was himself ― Prometheus. "See, when the time came after mankind was born and every angel was asked to bestow a gift upon God's newest creation, the other angels gave the gifts of beauty, protection, festivity, knowledge, and such. You, however, gave them something that made all of those worth living for."

"What?" Erik asked quietly, his eyes staring at her in anticipation.

"Passion." Her fingers continued to brush across his back, but she had long wandered away from his scars and was now drawing a line down the unmarred surface of his skin. Jovan felt as if she were mapping new terrain, venturing into new territory, and excitement curled in her stomach as she continued to explore the expanse of Erik's back. She noticed just how warm his flesh was and how he had slowly began to relax under her touch. "See, gifting passion to the naive race of man was something akin to lighting a fire. With passion, beauty was no longer merely appreciated, but it also became something to desire. Passion was what drove mothers to protect their children, what drove lovers to keep each other out of harm's way. Passion gave life to the celebrations that were held, vigor and vitality to the dancing, the singing, the praying. Men of science and culture were driven to preach and discourse about the knowledge they had because of the passion they possessed.

"Your gift to mankind was a beautiful one, but it was also a double-edged sword that not only inspired love and zeal, but also hatred and mania. Why else did the Trojan War begin if not for the beautiful Helen? Why do lovers kill paramours if not out of jealousy? Why does man wage war if not to fight for what he believes in?"

Jovan's heart began to hammer in her chest, not for the story that she was telling, but for the spark that she saw in Erik's green and amber eyes as he gazed at her. She could see that he was completely entranced by her words, an unparalleled delight for her ― who else could boast of having the Phantom's undivided attention for such a period of time? It drove her harder to complete her story, if only to keep Erik looking at her the way he was doing at the present, with such vehemence that made her feel as if she were the only person who ever mattered in the world.

"It was for causing such discord among the once-peaceful race of man that you were thrown out of the heavens. Of course, they had to cut off your wings first to make sure that you would no longer be recognized as one of God's holy creatures, and they were not gentle when they did so," Jovan continued to narrate as her finger found its way back to one of his scars, one that ran quite far down his back. "Hence, these scars that you now carry on your back, a reminder of what you once used to be."

"If only reality were as beautiful as fiction. But it seems that even in fantasy, I always have to be dealt the terrible card, don't I?" There was nothing spiteful in Erik's tone, but there was a trace of sadness when he spoke.

"Atlas wasn't given the world to carry if his shoulders couldn't bear the weight," Jovan replied.

"And is that how you intend to immortalize me? Alongside your gods and Titans as a fallen angel who gifted passion to mankind?" Erik's tone grew mocking, and Jovan would have been offended if she didn't remember that Erik was not a man of fanciful flights, preferring to ground his feet firmly in reality.

A shrug left her shoulders. "Well, that's the version that I'm sticking to until I learn your actual past." She felt Erik grow tense under her touch again and she realized what her words suggested. However, Jovan didn't want to draw Erik's past out of his own mouth by force ― she would let him tell it only when he was ready to do so. She then decided that a change of topic was in order, if only to get rid of the apprehension that now strained the air around them. "And now that I've told you a story, I do believe that it's time for you to finish yours. And preferably not in a dark chapel, thank you very much."

"Two years, Jovan. Two years and you still can't let go of that story?" Erik answered, shaking his head as he returned to his papers, and Jovan had to restrain herself from taking a hold of his chin just so he wouldn't turn away from her yet. Blinking, Jovan pushed away the irrational urge, confused as to where the impulse had even come from.

"I simply think that there's something unfathomably tragic about stories that are never finished," Jovan said as her fingers finally left Erik's back.

The second her hands left him, Erik immediately found himself missing the contact. The warmth of her fingers penetrating the fabric of his shirt and eliciting a sense of calm quieted the turmoil in his head. But the smell of ink and parchment before him drove away the absurd longing, and Erik's attention returned to the opera that he was writing.

"Well, unfortunately, not all stories have a proper ending. That's a fact, and one you're better off accepting," he remarked firmly.

"Oh, please. Just admit that you don't know how to end your story," Jovan insisted.

"Fine. I concede," Erik retorted peevishly as he glanced to glare at Jovan for a split second before returning to his piece. "I'll even admit that I made up the story on the spot."

"I would have applauded you if only you had an ending for it," Jovan snickered.

Dropping his pen (he seriously wasn't going to get anything done with Jovan there but he didn't have the heart to shoo her away either, not after having been apart from her for two weeks), Erik turned until he ended up straddling the bench he was sitting on. "If you're so adamant about hearing an ending to the story, why don't you make one for it?" To drive his point home, Erik even grabbed a blank piece of parchment from his organ and offered it to Jovan.

But Jovan appeared to ignore his words as she said, "What about your characters? Were they also made up on the spot? Is that why they don't have names?"

"No. I took their names from a suit in the tarot deck, the Major Arcana." Erik recalled his time back at the gypsy camp, where he had refused to let his days and nights there go to waste as he had to suffer behind the bars of his cage. There had been a woman there, with tanned skin and kind grey eyes, who had taught him a few of the tricks that he now always carried under his sleeve. She used to sneak into the tent where Erik had been kept, under the veil of the night to teach and tell him a few of their ways. Among them had been a lesson about the tarot cards and how to use them for divination. While Erik's interest in fortune telling was never kindled, the meaning of the cards did stay with him.

Jovan carefully took the paper from Erik before she began to fiddle with its edges. Her eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Then I reckon that there's a meaning behind those? The Star, the Devil, and the Emperor?"

"Indeed. The Star represents hope and inspiration, but she is also unreachable ― hence why neither of her lovers truly succeed in winning her heart. The Emperor is, well, a ruler. He rules with absolute power and authority. And while he is generous, he is also rigid and can be excessively controlling. Lastly, the Devil stands for temptation, along with our primal desire for earthly pleasures. However, the Devil also represents living in fear and bondage."

"...It all makes more sense now," Jovan whispered, and Erik guessed that she was talking about his unfinished story. "Impressive." He spotted her eyes glowing with fascination, and Erik was a child again, his own green and amber eyes alight with the same wonder when he had first learned about the cards.

"I thought so too," Erik replied.

Jovan then took her place on the bench, her back to the organ while Erik still sat astride the bench. "What about the Hanged Man? I've always wondered because ― well, you know why."

"It's the title of your mother's novel, yes." A small smile crossed Erik's lips. "The Hanged Man stands for sacrifice, sometimes at a personal cost. Martyrdom, letting go, crossroads. But all these also come with the benefit of enlightenment."

"I did tell you the premise of my mother's book, didn't I?" Jovan's eyes crinkled with amusement.

"You did. The son of an aristocrat falls in love with a courtesan. A fitting title."

Jovan bit her lower lip, appearing to be in thought for a brief moment, and Erik found his gaze drawn to the flesh tucked between her teeth. "If there's a Star, then there must be a Sun and Moon too, right?" she mused out loud.

Erik gave a nod. "What the Sun stands for is quite obvious, to be honest. Warmth, triumph, and joy. Meanwhile, the Moon embodies illusions, fears, and fantasies."

Jovan placed the paper she held on top of the organ. "Is there a chance that there's a card called the Phantom?"

"No."

"Pity. I wouldn't have been surprised if you took your sobriquet from a deck of fortune-telling cards."

"You really need to get out more," Erik scoffed before crossing his one leg over the bench and standing up. "I do hope that I've inspired you enough now to write something," he taunted as he began to walk away.

"Yes, I do. I think I might even have an idea for a book ― you."

Time froze along with the breath and blood in Erik's body. He turned back to Jovan only to see her still perched on his bench, her features painted into an inscrutable mask. He couldn't tell whether she was serious or not, even with her brilliant green eyes staring back at him, an unreadable glint in them. Erik had no doubts about Jovan's ability with words, but the thought of her writing about him...

"You jest," he answered, arching a brow at her.

"Do I look like?" she countered, standing from the bench as she approached him. Her lips tugged into a mischievous grin, and all Erik could think of then was how that kind of smile suited her.

Erik shrugged. "Who knows what goes on inside that pretty head of yours?" The swishing of her skirt against the floor of his cavern reached his ears, and Erik couldn't help but appreciate the fact that Jovan had long discontinued her use of trousers as she began using skirts ever since she moved to the costume department.

"It's best if you don't find out," Jovan answered as she stopped two feet away from him.

"Why? Are you afraid I won't like what I find?"

"I'm afraid you might like what you find."

Erik blinked. His heart skipped a beat. Jovan then gave a dramatic curtsy before making her way around him and towards a divan.