Author's Note: Thank you, thank you to everyone who left reviews, for both chapters 33 and 34, since the former was the one that preceded my hiatus and so many of you kept leaving reviews anyway. It's truly encouraging to come back to this story only to see old and new readers alike still wanting more of this story even if I give such late updates. Truth be told, I've been having great difficulty writing for this story as of late, most likely because of the combined effects of college beating me to a pulp, not having written anything fandom-related for a long time, and the world being caught up in one hell of a shitstorm. But please know that your kind words keep me going that it even overwhelms me sometimes to receive so much support from such lovely people; I never would have gotten this far without all of you. I can only hope now that whatever I have planned out for Jovan and Erik's story, it won't disappoint my wonderful readers.
Now, here's a chapter featuring just Jovan and Erik, because I know you guys missed reading about these two as much as I did writing them. But as much as I wrote this to give our two protagonists some quality time, I felt it imperative to release this chapter as soon as I can, too, in light of one of the recent trending hashtags on Twitter ― #whyididntreport. Two of the reasons I persevered to continue writing this story no matter how exhausting it sometimes got was because it helped me come to terms with the sexual trauma I myself experienced as a young girl, and to let anyone else out there who's been through some semblance of it that they are not alone, that I believe your story, and that I hope you heal through the pain, no matter how long or how much it takes because it's what you deserve.
Lastly, since you're already on the internet reading on a fic, don't forget to use any platforms that you have to voice out your support for the Black Lives Matter movement. Stay updated, do what you can to help and fund BLM causes, and most importantly, let your voice be heard. Another cause worth fighting for would be the one concerning my own country, the Philippines, where we are under the threat of having our freedom of speech and expression taken away as per the Anti-Terrorism Bill. This is not a time to be silent so please, taking a stand today would mean the world to each one of us being oppressed in one way or another. Thank you.
TRIGGER WARNING/S: Sexual trauma, mentions of physical abuse
Kawaii-Shishiza: You make me blush. Writing Erik as a developing character is one of the more challenging aspects of this work so I'm grateful for the reaffirmation that at the very least, I'm doing a decent job at it. Thank you!
Le Fantome: I'm sorry I made you wait so long! And great job surviving your first year of college too! Now we can enjoy some small amount of liberty after being kept busy for so long. Good luck with your courses! Your reviews never cease to make me smile, thank you!
The Sharpened Pencil: AO3 is a bit difficult to navigate around but I found your work and am currently on chapter two! I think I can see some of the moments that were inspired by this story of mine; you've no idea how fulfilling it is for me to know that I have such an effect on a fellow writer. Seriously, thank you. I hope you enjoy this chapter too! Don't mind me now as I continue reading Kathryn's story.
( thirty-five )
LAST NIGHT
Six minutes to nine.
Erik continued to stare at his pocket watch as the minute hand continued to tick, not quite able to process how late it was becoming. Six minutes to nine. Six minutes to nine. It was six minutes to nine and yet, Jovan was still nowhere to be seen.
He shut his watch close with a faint click before slipping it back into his pocket as a sudden uproar of thoughts flooded his head, and all he could do to soften the noise was to close his eyes tightly, one hand reaching to cover his face as he sank into his seat.
What had he done? How stupid could he have been to allow Jovan to go forward with her misguided plans? And now he didn't even have the slightest where she could be in all of Paris. As the sharp cries of his own conscience continued to scold him, Erik bared his teeth and brought his other hand to his face. He pressed his eyes into his palm. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
But admonishing himself was not going to help either him or Jovan. No, what needed to do now was to go out and brave the streets of Paris, go out and find Jovan no matter the cost.
Rushing to his feet, Erik grabbed his gloves from his desk and his cloak and hat from the rack next. With a few strides, he was soon at the mouth of the same tunnel that Jovan had used to leave. As he began to fasten his cloak around his next, Erik was already considering the numerous pubs and hotels on the same street as the Opéra Populaire as well as the next ones. What were the chances that Jovan would pick a room from those establishments? And where in between those was a kidnapping most likely to occur? What would be th―
"Erik?"
Oh for God's sake.
The voice deep in the tunnel was unmistakable. Erik halted the second Jovan's husky voice reached his ears, and he wondered if hearing her say his name had always sounded this euphoric. His hands froze in the middle of fastening his cloak, and he stared hard at the darkness before him until the edges of a familiar figure soon came into sight.
A few more steps and soon, Jovan was fully in front of him. Her hood was down and the scarf he gave her was no longer wrapped around her but it hung from her arm instead. Strays of stubborn red hair escaped her hair-do, giving her quite the disheveled appearance, and splashes of dried mud covered the bottom hems of her trousers. All of these details did not escape Erik, yet the most important one had to be the fact that she was simply safe and alive.
Erik felt as if he could collapse from the immense relief that rushed over him at that second.
"Erik?" Jovan called again. "Are you going somewhere?"
With an inner sigh, he schooled his features into a cool mask of indifference before shaking his head. "Well..." To tell the truth or tell a lie?
"I was about to look for you, if you must know."
Jovan's brows went up. "What? Why?"
Erik gave a roll of his eyes before gruffly pulling his hat off his head and turning on his heel. He heard Jovan walking behind him as he left the tunnel and returned into the recesses of his home to put away his hat and cloak. The adrenaline slowly trickled away from his veins as he breathed in deeply to calm himself.
"Because it's almost nine in the evening, that's why," Erik answered petulantly. When he looked back at Jovan, she had already removed her cloak and hung it on the rack as well. The scarf, however, was now on her neck and unwrapped, both ends of the gray fabric reaching her waist.
Erik watched her as she began to untie her hair. "And? I'm here now, aren't I? Oh ye of little faith," Jovan sang, amused, as she shook her head to allow her red curls to tumble down and freely.
Although Erik truly felt nothing but relief and a hint of elation at knowing Jovan had been safe and sound all this time, he stubbornly maintained the faux air of annoyance. "And what in the world even made you take so long?" he demanded before realizing he was staring at Jovan's hair, again. Stupid and hopeless.
"Hush," Jovan whispered before reaching into the divan she was standing next to. Her hands emerged with each one holding a small paper bag. "Here. I dropped by a bakery among other things. Hopefully a croissant will lift your spirits."
Erik took one of the offered bags before opening it. Damn this girl and her love for pastries. But true to Jovan's word, a newly baked croissant sat at the bottom of the paper bag. It was still warm enough to penetrate through his gloves, and Erik spent a few seconds savoring the smell of the pastry, before he felt his face heat up at the implications of that small gesture.
Jovan had thought of buying him something. Jovan had thought of him even when outside of his opera house. Oh.
Don't make a big deal out of it now, Erik reprimanded himself, at the same unfortunate moment that he chose to eloquently compose his reply.
"Jovan, I..."
While he was struggling to find words, Jovan was already chewing on her own croissant while sitting on the divan. "Yes, you're welcome," her reply came, muffled as she continued to chew while speaking.
At that, Erik just had to give a small laugh ― he somehow had to get rid of the sudden flutter he felt in his chest. "Of course," he muttered, shaking his head before approaching the divan and sitting next to Jovan. "So, how did your search go?" he asked as he pulled his gloves off his hands.
"Quite well. Found a public house not far from the Populaire, thankfully. I don't really want to move out so suddenly and so far from your majesty's opera house now."
Erik chuckled as he took his first bite out of the pastry. He took a moment to savor the warm bread and its rich taste before chewing it down; it had been quite some time since he even thought of buying some pastries for himself, after all. "A wise move. And may I ask the name of this pub that you've chosen?"
"The Harpy's Haven," Jovan replied, finishing the last of her snack. The name immediately rang a bell in Erik's head. "I think Mateo mentioned it to me a few times. Not a lot of people go there since it has the bad luck of being across its competitor, the Old Jester. So it shouldn't be too rowdy during the night. I imagine you're familiar with the place?"
Erik nodded as he listened to Jovan while feasting on his croissant. Good, good. Jovan had certainly made a good choice of choosing the Harpy's Haven to stay in (not that he had expected any less from her). Erik himself had come across the pub a few times during the rare nights on which he ventured out into the streets of Paris. It was one of the stagehands' haunts among the many pubs not far from the Opéra Populaire. But like Jovan said, it was rarely filled to its capacity. Quite frankly, he was a bit amazed the pub had yet to close down despite having a fierce competitor on the opposite street.
"I am. Remember the tunnel we used on the night you brought me to your family's mausoleum?" Erik inquired as he ate the last of the croissant before he folded his paper bag neatly and took Jovan's, doing the same with it. "You can use the same passageway to easily slip in and out."
As Erik rose from the divan to dispose of the bags, Jovan followed suit before proceeding to stretch her arms. "Alright. You might have to guide me through the passageway again though."
"Tonight, I shall." Erik began to put back on his gloves after visiting the nearby bin. "But first, we must pay Antoinette a visit. I'd appreciate it if you explain your impending absence yourself before she notices it and proceeds to stomp her way down here, demanding an explanation from me―"
"Done."
Erik arched a brow. "Done?"
"It's another reason why I took so long to get down here," Jovan coolly pointed out.
"Hm," Erik hummed in appreciation of her foresight. "I suppose all that's left for tonight then is to move out?"
The moment the words left his lips, Erik turned his back to Jovan, distractedly fixing his cravat as he waited for Jovan's reply. Dread sat in the pit of his stomach, and he didn't want to acknowledge it but it was there too ― the fear ― fear that went against all rational thoughts at the prospect of Jovan leaving and never returning. Erik knew that his own thoughts and emotions were prone to spiraling out of control, but to this extent?
It was all too confusing, too much.
"No," then came Jovan's answer, and Erik tried not to sigh too loud in relief.
No. "Oh? And why not?"
Erik turned to face her once more, and he was surprised to immediately notice the change in her bearing. Gone was the casual demeanor, and a familiar solemness had fallen over her.
"I want to... spend a few more hours here at the Populaire. It's my last night here, after all," came her quiet reply.
Her last night. Erik blinked, if only to keep himself from visibly wincing from those three words, before he cleared his throat.
"I suppose it's only right you have one last walk around the opera house then," Erik remarked, forcing a small smile on his lips. "It was your home for quite some time after all."
"It was." Erik stayed in his spot even as Jovan walked towards him and then past him. Glancing behind his shoulder, he saw that the redhead had approached his desk, running a hand over the rosewood and fingering the edge of one of the many sheets that lied face down on it.
His heart clenched. It truly seemed like she was saying goodbye.
"Go on, put on your cloak now," Jovan then piped out, shaking Erik out of his thoughts. "No one better to guard me on my last walk around his domain other than the king himself, no?"
Erik took a second longer than usual to process her words before he shifted. She wanted his company on her last night inside the Opéra Populaire. How could he say no to that? Not that he wanted to anyway; in fact, he was even very pleased.
A smirk graced his lips. "If my lady commands."
"What kind of bastard lectures about writing with passion in a chapel of all places?" Jovan huffed as she leaned against the inner wall of the aforementioned place.
Of course the chapel was on her list of places to visit during her last night at the Opéra Populaire. Not that she had become religious again, but the peace she felt whenever she visited the place was simply undeniable. And then there was that encounter with Erik ― no. That was not Erik she had spoken with on that day, but an engrossing fusion of himself and the Opera Ghost, the specter who always sought perfection and demanded nothing but the very best from those under his wings.
Jovan reminisced in silence as she watched Erik peevishly stare at the window, probably having eyed a smudge of dirt or a cobweb hanging from the stained glass. He then straightened before glancing at her, a familiar grin of mischief on his curled lips. "Me, of course. Me, and only me," he proudly declared.
She gave a scoff as she ran her eyes all over him, taking in the pure-black cloak and the cream cravat around his neck. Come to think of it, she never saw him again in the same ensemble he appeared in on that day. His cloak with its red lining was something she rarely saw him wear again, but never did he pair it again with the dark red cravat.
Jovan still remembered how she saw him on that sunny afternoon ― with wings of darkness, he had almost looked like an angel. But of course, far from the angelic type.
A thin-lipped smile appeared on her face as she then straightened up and walked towards the altar, where a sea of candles of varying heights and states of decay were waiting, some of then untouched and some of them lit. She could still single out which of them were hers, three candles that she used to light for her father, mother, and brother, and all three were now covered with a fine layer of dust.
"You forget that this was the place I locked you in in order to interrogate you as well," Erik's silk-like voice then came from behind her, interrupting her reverie. Jovan rolled her eyes at the memory that rose at being summoned by his words.
"I appreciate the reminder, Erik," Jovan answered sarcastically as she turned to face him. She didn't realize how close he had been standing behind her and she was surprised that he was only inches away from her. The faint smell of perfume greeted her nostrils as her heart stuttered.
Jovan swallowed hard. "What, are you scheming to lock me in here again?" she accused him with an arched brow.
Erik actually seemed to consider the idea for a moment, a moment which Jovan spent quashing the voice that told her that she absolutely wouldn't mind being locked in a room with him. What the hell?
"No," Erik finally breathed out. "Even if I did plan on doing that, rest assured you wouldn't be able to see it coming, of course."
Jovan released a lungful of air that she had been somehow holding in before she turned on her heel to face the altar once again. "Good," she sneered, staring at the lit candles, "you lunatic."
"Why, is there something you aren't telling me?"
Jovan considered his words before shaking her head. No, Erik no longer had to interrogate her ever again, not when she knew she could be truly honest with him. How could she not be after she had already bared to him the darkest parts of herself, the parts that she loathed herself, just as he did with himself?
"You know, though," she began, "if you told me in the past that I would be chatting with you amicably in the same place where you interrogated me―"
"You would have punched me?" Erik finished for her.
Jovan chuckled. "Perhaps. But since you saw that coming, I am now forced to reassess my method of retaliation."
Erik gave a laugh of his own, a deep sound that hummed with amusement. As she watched the still buds of light atop the lit candles, Jovan couldn't help but wonder if there would ever be another moment in the future where it could be like this again ― just her and Erik, alone in a room filled with candlelight, soft laughter, and each for company.
But tonight was not for dwelling on what might come, but for what had been.
After one last look around the dim chapel, Jovan finally exited. His steps were silent as always but she felt Erik following behind her. Jovan could only be thankful that the staff had yet to return from their holiday break (with the exception of Madame Giry and her daughters), granting her and Erik the rare opportunity of having the opera house to themselves and the freedom to walk in the hallways without fear of being seen.
"So how does it feel being able to walk these halls without having to lurk in the shadows?" Jovan broke the silence just as she and Erik arrived at a carpeted hallway. It was darker than the chapel, but Jovan easily navigated her way through the shadows, and she knew Erik would have less difficulty in doing so as well.
A heartbeat passed before Erik answered, "Nothing. I walk as I always walk ― hidden to the world, forever unseen."
Jovan halted in her steps, allowing Erik to catch up with her, before she replied, "I'm sorry. I see it's not so different now from when you walk in your secret passageways. I guess the two of us alone but with no one to watch defeats this fleeting feeling of freedom then."
"Was the alliteration intentional? That was terrible," Erik wondered, sounding amused, and yet Jovan knew he was simply trying to change the topic.
"I didn't know how else to word it. Poetry can't sound pretty all the time now," Jovan humored him anyway, not really wanting to possibly ruin the mood by pushing Erik out of his comfort zone.
They soon arrived at the hallway for the boxes. Jovan's feet immediately led her to Box Five, where she traced the gold-embossed number on the door with a finger.
"Does this box really provide the best view during performances?" she asked.
"It does," Erik answered with an air of pride. "You can hear the cast and the orchestra best from this spot as well."
"Too bad I only got to watch our operas from backstage and above," Jovan muttered with a pout that only seemed to make Erik chortle.
"I imagine when you resume your position as comtesse, it shouldn't be too hard to reserve a box for yourself now, no?"
Jovan tilted her head at Erik's suggestion, something that had already crossed her mind in the past. "It should be too easy even. But at what cost? I know I wasn't exactly the friendliest face around here, but I was a face nevertheless. What are the chances a member of the staff will recognize me if I decide to attend one of the premieres?"
Eriks' hands then landed on both of her upper arms, and it took every shred of self-control Jovan had not to flinch at his touch as his fingers gently wrapped around her. It was not that she feared his touch, but the suddenness had simply caught her too much by surprise. She was not one to usually jump at unexpected contact, but seeing how the last few days had been going... it did nothing to calm her nerves.
It's just Erik, Jovan told herself as he firmly turned her to face him, not unkindly. She kept still, not quite sure of what to expect from him, until he made no move to release her.
It took her a few seconds before Jovan realized he was staring at her, nothing more. She watched his eyes of deep green and warm amber as they seemed to go over her features, from her own eyes to her lips. Though moonlight weakly filtered through the opera house's windows, Jovan tried to convince herself it was not enough for him to see how warm her cheeks were becoming, his sharp eyes be damned. But how else was she supposed to feel when Erik was inspecting her so closely and so carefully?
"Erik?" Jovan chirped, hoping she didn't sound too nervous or breathless for that matter.
He gave a hum. "I can't recall you ever using make-up in the entirety of your stay here."
"I was a stagehand and a seamstress, I didn't need it."
"Good," Erik remarked. "Because a little kohl around your eyes, some rouge on your lips, perhaps a wig, and I'm almost sure that none of the staff will recognize Jovan Rousseau if they see you."
"Oh?" Jovan scoffed in amusement. "Is that what all this staring was for?"
Erik finally let go of her before taking a step back to give them both much needed space. "Perhaps."
Jovan gave a roll of her eyes, but she took note of Erik's advice nevertheless and shoved it somewhere at the back of her head for the time when she would need it. "Duly noted, Monsieur Phantom," she thanked him in a playful tone. "But until then, I'll keep my face as it is when around you."
"I absolutely have no problem with that," Erik threw back through a thin-lipped smile.
"Good. And now, we go to my favorite spot in your opera house."
White flakes of snow were the first things to greet Jovan as she ran out into the rooftop. Erik trailed behind her, preferring to walk on a leisurely pace, but that did not stop him from admiring the sight before him, the January cold and a certain wordsmith both included.
He stopped in the doorway leading to the rooftop if only to watch Jovan as she pulled her hood down and lifted her chin to the skies. As he observed her with her eyes closed and a warm smile on her fair face, it was almost too easy to forget that Jovan was truly Nathalie Sauveterre, a woman of twenty-one years who was both a comtesse and the owner of a shipping company. As Erik stared at the redhead enjoying the snowfall before him, it was almost too easy to simply think of her as Jovan Rousseau, a young girl with a way with words who worked at the Opéra Populaire.
Erik smiled at the thought. Ultimately, he knew that Jovan was those two people at once, but he would always be grateful that he knew her as Jovan first, and not the other way around.
"What?" he then heard her call out to him. She was staring at him with that rare wide smile of hers where it seemed as if she had forgotten all her troubles in the world. "Is the Opera Ghost afraid of a little snow now?"
"I wouldn't call it a little snow," Erik retorted as he stepped through the doorway, his dark boots sinking into the blanket of snow that covered the rooftop. The cold frosted his breath into vapors as he walked towards a towering statue of two people in a lovers' embrace, under which Jovan had now situated herself. The winter frost crunched softly beneath his feet with every step he took until he reached Jovan.
"Don't you feel cold?" she asked as she fixed the scarf he gave her, fully wrapping it around her neck until she looked as if she were snuggling underneath a blanket. Snowflakes peppered her red curls, and Erik couldn't help himself as he reached out with the intent of brushing some of the snow away.
But then Jovan flinched the moment he raised his hand towards her, and he caught the quick glint of fear in her gaze.
"I-I didn't mean to―" Jovan stuttered but Erik shushed her as he dropped his arm.
"No, Jovan. Forgive me," he apologized, feeling foolish for a second at his lack of deliberation. He immediately recognized that look in Jovan's eyes when he saw it, and he knew that for the briefest of moments, her mind had taken her back to last night in the coach with her uncle. His eyes then dropped to the small wound on her cheek, and the same rage he felt when he first saw it rose to the call once more.
Erik clenched his teeth. Only God knew now what he would do if he got his hands on that sickening vicomte―
"Erik, it's nothing," Jovan's voice pulled him out from the torrent waters of his thoughts just as her hand latched onto his wrist. He met her eyes and saw the softness in her gaze, and it almost immediately drove away the cacophony in his head.
"Of course it's not, Jovan," Erik answered, the faintness of his own voice throwing him off guard as he watched Jovan seat herself at the feet of the two lovers behind her atop a block of marble.
"Force of habit, I suppose," came Jovan's quiet reply, and Erik tried not to visibly wince at the unbidden image of Jovan suffering from the same physical abuse at the tender age of thirteen. How many more horrors had she truly endured while under the same roof as Rémi? While Erik truly wanted to know, aware that he had seen much worse anyway during his days as a court assassin, a small part of him wanted to cower away from it; ignorance was bliss after all, and he already knew too much of man's wicked nature.
Yet Erik knew that when it came to Jovan, he simply couldn't afford to not know.
"Are you telling me you had to walk around your estate with similar wounds before? That you would say that they're nothing if someone noticed them?" Erik asked, careful to keep his tone gentle but firm.
Jovan's stare was distant as she replied, "It... was usually in places where no one could see them. But on the rare occasion where the marks would show, I just... had to make up a story, of course. I fell off a tree. I scratched the spot too hard. I tried out gardening..."
"And people believed you?"
Her voice was unbearably solemn when she answered. "Yes. But then again, maybe it was better to give them a lie they could easily swallow, rather than the actual truth."
"Jovan, what makes you think that?"
She lifted her eyes to him, a small bitter edge to her voice when she spoke. "Erik, do you really think people would easily believe that I was raped by my own blood? I think they'd accuse me of initiating the affair with him before anything else."
Erik looked away, the cutting truth of Jovan's words almost too much for him to confront. He had already weighed the chances of her father and her mother, had she been alive, believing Jovan if she had come to them with the truth. But as much as it angered and pained him to think of it, he could not deny that there would have always been a chance of Jovan's own parents dismissing her even if she came to them with blood on her skin. Worse, the blame might have even been shifted to her.
"You're right," Erik finally whispered in response, his head bowed low. There was really nothing else to say.
He saw Jovan weakly shake her head out of the corner of his eye. "You know, I've been doing my best to put on a brave face ever since last night. But I don't feel like I'm doing a good job at all, even though I've spent most of my life putting up acts."
"You don't have to put on a brave face all the time, Jovan."
"But I want to, Erik," Jovan pressed, her voice rising a notch as Erik noted the edge of panic in it. "Otherwise... I'm just scared. I'm the scared little girl back at the manor when I was thirteen. I'm the scared little girl who didn't care about her father getting hurt because I was simply frightened."
Frightened. Erik shut his eyes at the word, an emotion he was all too familiar with ever since he was a child. And now, as horrifying as their circumstances were, it was also another thread that connected him and Jovan ― they were both victims, no matter how much they both didn't want to be seen as such. Victims of violence, but also so much more.
He was now the Phantom, Erik reminded himself. While Jovan... Jovan was herself. The spitfire who, before she even came to the Opéra Populaire, had already always been brave enough. Brave enough to survive, to talk to ghosts, to wander in the dark, to tell her story, and now, to fight back.
Erik turned to Jovan and cautiously, he offered his hand to her. This time, she didn't flinch, but she shot Erik a questioning look instead.
"I know the feeling all too well, my dear poet," he remarked. "Sometimes, the fear never really leaves. I should know; it's why I've never left the catacombs of the Populaire ever since Persia. But that doesn't mean you're failing, no. You're scared, yes, but the fact that you've chosen to come this far? To no longer stay silent? To continue raging? It shows that your bravery is more than a mask you put on."
Erik didn't take his eyes off Jovan as a smile graced her lips, her eyes crinkling while she finally slipped her hand into Erik's gloved one. As he wrapped his fingers around her and gently pulled her to her feet, he quietly took note of her lack of gloves. Perhaps he could do something to amend that soon; he didn't want Jovan feeling cold after all.
As he led Jovan away from the statue of the lovers, he couldn't help but savor the feeling of her hand in his. It seemed like such a small thing, and yet all his attention was drawn towards how her hand perfectly fit in his, like the notes of a song coming together to create a sweeping melody, the clouds gathering for a storm, the last piece of a puzzle falling into place.
For a moment, there was only him and Jovan, and the world did not exist.
But then her hand suddenly left his, breaking his trance, as Jovan latched onto the balcony and peered into the streets below. Time resumed again, and Erik could only stare at his hand as he felt the seconds ticking by once more.
His heart raced.
Why? Erik wanted to ask himself over and over again ― why? Why was this happening to him? Why did he feel this way when he only ever felt a semblance of this mania whenever he made music in the past? What was this fire that burned him so, yet had such an tender warmth that he simply couldn't resist?
A gust of the winter cold then blew past them, and Erik staggered at the abrupt strength while he heard Jovan laugh beside him. He cleared his throat as he straightened his back.
"I don't remember Januaries being this cold," Jovan said, kicking at the frost beneath her feet.
"Would you like to come back inside now?" Erik asked.
Jovan hummed as she considered his offer. "Only if you agree to something."
But Erik didn't have to know what her proposition was; he already knew he would say yes to her and a thousand times more if it meant that the smile on her face would never vanish.
Still, those words were too much even for him to admit at the moment. "What is it?"
"Laurine told me to make up stories about my travels in case anyone asks. I can't exactly pick up stories from books now but... I have you, no?"
Erik smirked, realizing what her request was about to be. "What do you want from me, Jovan? Hm?"
Jovan faced him before taking a step towards him. She closed the distance between them, leaving only a few inches of space that Erik hoped was enough for her to not hear the hammering in his chest. He felt her eyes run over him, from his head to his chest and down to his feet, as if she were sizing him up and he almost let himself falter beneath her brilliant green eyes.
Erik felt his breath hitch, a sudden rush of heat that almost made him dizzy. Had her presence always been this intoxicating, or was it just something about the cold? Nothing about this felt like it made sense, not even when he tried to silently recount what the possible causes of an elevated pulse were, because he was most definitely not suffering from an adrenaline rush. Was he?
The small smile on Jovan's mouth then turned into a teasing one. "Your help, Erik. You once told me that I have you, your help. Do your words still stand true?"
"Yes." You have all of me. "And I don't plan to withdraw them, come what may."
Jovan chuckled before poking him in the ribs. Erik huffed indignantly.
"You sound like you're ten seconds away from announcing that we ride at dawn towards war," she chided him. "I simply need your help with fabricating my overseas voyaging, Erik. You're the one who's been to Persia and further, after all. That is, if you don't mind?"
"Not at all," Erik assured her with all his heart. "I can only hope now that my storytelling abilities are on par with yours, Miss Rousseau."
"They are, Erik. Of course they are."
The streets below them were finally growing empty, but it was only a sight that Jovan began to dread as, one by one, she watched the Parisians call it a night before slipping into their coaches, their posh hotels, or into dark alleys and raucous pubs.
Jovan told herself earlier that she would finally move out of the Opéra Populaire once the streets of Paris were empty enough for her to move around unnoticed by any sober pair of eyes. But as the night neared that hour, she only found herself growing more and more reluctant to leave the rooftop, to leave Erik's side, to leave the opera house.
"I won't get to say goodbye to Mateo," she then murmured. "Or Tess. And Christine."
She hung her head. And to think that she had given them her goodbyes before they left yesterday morning, not knowing that they would be the very last. Most of Jovan's relationships with the opera staff had been professional, sometimes nonexistent even, but there had been a few exceptions. There was Tess, one of her roommates; and while they had never been particularly close, her company was something that Jovan had come to appreciate, especially when Elea left. As for Christine, it was just too hard not to get attached to the doe-eyed brunette, not when almost everyone in their dormitory had the common urge to protect the youngest member of the ballet corps. And when Elea left for England, watching over Christine also became Jovan's task on the nights when the young girl would escape to the chapel.
Then there was Mateo. Mateo, who had put up with her rash temper, who had opted to get to know her when the rest of the stagehands would rather either stay away from or get their hands on her. Mateo, who always bought her pastries when he could, who was happy to let her be as long as he saw that she was content.
A wave of sadness washed over Jovan. If only she knew that it would all lead up to this...
"You can always leave them a note," Erik tried to suggest beside her.
"I can't do that without the guarantee of them throwing away those notes once they read them. I'd rather not risk their safety if Rèmi comes here with the intent to look for me, or, worse, to find the people that I've been in close contact with."
Jovan had to wonder then if that was how it felt like to be a ghost. To only be there for a brief period of time in a person's life before she left again, leaving no trace of her presence behind except the memories she shared with them, if they would even choose to look back upon such. She didn't know exactly why now, but it somehow hurt. She was leaving more than home behind, but also people that she had, in spite of herself, grown to care for over time.
And Erik was the greatest among them.
She glanced at him in the silence that he had chosen as his response. "This is certainly not goodbye between me and you, though," she assured him, though not quite sure if her words were for Erik or herself.
Erik's eyes seemed to light up at her words. "Is it not?"
"Once you show me the way out of the tunnels later, I think I'll be able to go back and visit you safely enough. That is, if I'm welcome."
"You always are, Jovan." Erik smiled at her, and her pulse quickened at the way it softened the rest of his face, the hard lines that usually set his face in a serious expression vanishing from sight. In that second, Jovan thought she glimpsed the man Erik could have been had the world been much kinder to him. But no, this was not that Erik.
Another winter chill then swept through the rooftop, and Jovan almost trembled from the growing cold. Cupping her hands together, she raised them towards her mouth before blowing into her palms in an attempt to warm them. "Too bad it's getting colder by the minute now," she sighed, looking around her and taking in the snow, the night sky, and the lights of Paris. "It would be nice to be able to stay here a little bit longer. After all, I know not of the next time I'll be able to see this view."
"Then let's stay a little longer," Erik answered, earning a small chuckle from Jovan before she felt him take a step closer to her. Her first instinct was to back away at the sudden move again, but thankfully she was able to calm herself and stay in place. It was only Erik, she had to remind herself again. But before she could even think of what to reply to him, Erik took her hands in his gloved ones.
Immediately, Jovan felt blood rushing to her cheeks again at the unexpected contact. But she knew that she was pale enough that she turned a bit red in the cold, and she hoped Erik would come to the same conclusion if he noticed her blushing. Yet, heavens, why was she even blushing?
Her eyes were glued to Erik's fingers as he did his best to wrap them around her smaller hands. He maintained a soft but firm grasp on her hands, secure but not strong enough to hurt her, and Jovan allowed her arms to relax so as to let Erik take their weight as well. A heartbeat passed before his thumb began to move, caressing the small exposed skin of one of her hands as he moved it in circles.
Jovan watched, almost entranced, as the small movement brought her a feeling of ease. Such a small, small gesture, yet it somehow managed to make Jovan feel all the more safe.
And, of course, it had to be because of Erik.
Jovan bit into her lower lip as she switched her gaze to Erik. "Erik, I..."
"Hm?" He lifted his head to meet her stare, chimeric eyes greeting her with the same intensity they possessed since the day she first saw him, on that very same rooftop, and Jovan almost shuddered at the way he looked at her.
A hundred words waited on her tongue, tangled and incomprehensible, that Jovan knew she wanted to tell Erik, that she needed to tell him. Thank you, for staying with her despite the chaos of the past few days. Thank you, because he chose to stay on her side even when she almost drove him away with her own words. Thank you, for seeing something in her that she couldn't see for herself ― that she was indeed brave, no matter how much she felt like the opposite on most days.
But it was not the time for such a heartfelt speech filled of gratitude that almost made it sound like she was never coming back, and Jovan wanted nothing more than to be able to come back here, to come back to him, sooner or later. All was calm on that snowy January night, and she began to feel a bit warmer for every second Erik kept her hands within his own, so Jovan settled for a few quiet words as well.
"Thank you," she told him, mustering every ounce of sincerity that she could into every word.
The smile returned to Erik's calm face at the same moment he finally let go of her hands. The absence of his own warmth almost left Jovan crying back for his touch inside her head, but he took her by surprise once more when he reclaimed her right hand and slowly, achingly lifted it towards his mouth.
Jovan held her breath as she felt Erik's lips, unexpectedly soft and oh so warm, place a gentle kiss on her hand.
"It's nothing if it's for you," came his reply after a beat, and it took every shred of control Jovan possessed to hold in the sudden tears that sprang to the corners of her eyes.
She finally closed the gap between them, throwing caution to the wind, as she threw herself into his arms, her own ones wrapping around him as tightly as she could. It took a second for the visible tension to leave Erik's body before he reciprocated, wrapping his lean arms around Jovan in a tight embrace.
A treacherous tear escaped Jovan's eye as she stayed unmoving in Erik's arms. Damn it, she was only moving to a public house on the next street. Yet the fact remained that every inch of her heart continued to throb in pain at the very thought of leaving the place she had called her home for four years, along with the man she least expected to become her confidante. But there he was anyway, willing to keep her in his arms for as long as she needed because Jovan knew that Erik knew what she needed.
Jovan felt the seconds trickle by too quickly for her taste, as if the night already wanted to steal her away from Erik and from the Opéra Populaire. So she buried her face into the crook of his neck, committing to memory the very scent and warmth of him, and she felt Erik pull her closer too, almost raising her feet off the frost.
If this were to be the last embrace she would have with him in a while, it would simply be a sin not to savor it now, Jovan thought. Her goodbye would have to wait a little bit longer, for she was not letting go of Erik that soon yet.