Look M'sieur, Where all the Children Play

Disclamation: I don't own anything that belongs to someone else. I did own the word

Disclamation, but then I found out that it is, in fact, a real word.

A/N: Bathroom break, and I'm back at it! Just to warn you—this explores the idea that Erik and Madame (for my purposes Elise) Giry had something of a relationship, were the same age (about), and also talks about a scene where she almost dies. I sort of reinvented her past. It's his dream and a flashback, if you want to look at it that way. BTW, this puts him very out of character. That will be explained, I swear it. One more thing, I swear. I mentioned earlier Joliet was pronounced like Juliet. I'm editing that to say that it's pronounced Joh-lee-eht. The end two syllables are pronounced the same. The beginning has an "oh" sound instead.

"Come with me! Hurry!"

A boy with a bag over his head, two holes cut out for eyes, followed behind a limber and beautiful girl. They ran down dark alleyways and cut across back roads until they reached a large and expression-filled building.

The girl pushed the boy through a side entrance.

The girl entered a chapel and grabbed the boy's hands, dragging him to a corner. Footsteps approached, and an elderly voice called out, "Little Giry? Is that you?" She left muttering about how her ears were surely dying out.

"Is that your name? Little Giry?" the boy asked. His voice was musical and pleasant to the ears. But it was also dark, filled with horror, terror, and fear-inspiring.

"Only if that is what you wish to call me. I'm really Antoinette. Antoinette Giry. And who are you?"

"What does it matter?"

"I need something to call you," she said, apparently adamant that he had a name.

"I-I don't remember what my—what my mother called me. I mean to say, named me. I mean—"

She put one finger over his lips. Somewhere along the way, his bag fallen half off, showing off the lower portion of his face, exposing a handsome jaw and soft mouth. "It's all right. Erik."

"Erik?" he asked, hardly daring it to be true. A name—a real one! —that was all his.

"Yes Erik."

"Erik."

"In the carnival," Little Giry began, wishing she made up the beautiful name, "An old woman, she—while the she was telling me my fortune—or was supposed to—she just said it. She said it over and over again. 'Erik, Erik, Erik, Erik.'"

"I never knew that was my name…"

"Maybe it's not." Antoinette instantly regretted this, but instead of looking melancholy, his face was simply pensive.

"I like it nevertheless," he said finally.

Little Giry smiled looking relieved. He cracked a smile. "Thank you Giry."

She like the way he called her that. Elise was what her family had called her. The other ballet rats called her Little Giry, or the Petite Rat. They were just nicknames, but they made her feel like a child. Erik—her brother, that is—had promised her that when she turned fourteen he would call her Giry, not Little Giry. It had been him who'd started the nickname. It made her feel grown-up, like a woman, instead of a child.

Giry kissed him on the cheek lightly. It was daring and new to her. Like her name. "Sleep well Erik."

"Sleep well Giry."

Sixteen-year-old Giry was Prima Ballerina. She was the youngest to hold the position in the Opera Populaire. She stretched and practiced at midnight in her dressing room in nothing. She had just had her bath; she couldn't sleep. "You look beautiful." The rich voice came from behind her changing screen.

"Erik!" she gasped.

"Giry." He stated this as a fact.

"Can you—can you—you know—I mean to say—can you see me?" she stammered.

"Not if you don't want me to."

"Seriously Erik. Can you see me?"

"No. I'm behind your curtain Giry, can't you hear my voice?"

She shivered. She could hear his voice, and it was alluring, sensual, seductive. "Don't come out. Let me change."

Giry slid into a nightgown and dressing gown.

"May I come out?"

"Do you really need to ask that question Erik?"

"To be honest, no. But you already knew that Giry, didn't you?"

"Could you see me?" she asked as he stepped out from behind the screen.

"Would I lie to you, lovely Giry?"

"No," she said softly.

"I didn't see you naked Giry." He said it firmly.

"I can't sleep Erik." The words were still more shy than usual.

He sang softly. She fell asleep into his arms, and he laid her across her bed, drawing the covers over her.

"Happy birthday Giry," Erik said, stepping out from behind her curtain. "You're twenty now, right?"

"You remembered!"

"Oh, my Giry. Would I forget? Here. This is for you." He handed the girl a portfolio, kissed her soundly, and ran from the room.

"Erik! Come back! Please Erik. Don't leave!"

Giry opened the portfolio. "Oh Erik," she whispered. It was a packet of the lullabies and songs he had ever sang for her.

Oh music

Sweet and lovely song,

From you I run!

From you I hide!

Oh music

Sweet and lovely song

Seductress!

Murderess!

Oh music!

She remembered that one well. She had been struggling with the dance from the house's chosen opera. He had come out from behind her screen, sleeves rolled high and ink across his hands and arms. He saw her anger and sang that song softly. It had a beat that lent itself to dancing, and it was surprising close to the opera's music. It had helped tremendously. She danced to the song, remembering his gentle voice sliding over her like honey.

It was Giry's final performance of the very opera that had inspired Erik's little tune. She would be twenty-one in three months.

"Lovely Antoinette," a voice called from outside her door. It was too rough to be Erik's, and his always came from behind her changing screen. It was Jean Martin's.

Giry hurried to the door and opened it. "Lovely Antoinette, come to dinner with me. You were amazing to-night."

"Thank you M'sieur."

"How many times have I said it sweetheart? Call me Jean."

She laughed. It was a beautiful laugh. Behind her curtain, Erik's heart ached. He knew she wasn't really his. No one would ever be…

They hadn't spoken much since her birthday. He knew she didn't know how to find him. He didn't seek her out.

Jean Martin took Antoinette's hand in his own. "Marry me Antoinette."

She didn't think. He made sure of that. She had never had more than one glass of wine at a time. She had just had so many…far too many for a drunken Elise to count. Maybe five? Six, seven? She didn't know. "Yes M'sieur."

"Good girl," he murmured. He had his carriage take them both home. Once inside he had her against the wall in an instant. Every bit of sense in her head was shouting to stop this, but it couldn't force its way past her think skull.

His mouth was on hers; his hands were over her body. She couldn't stop it. She had no choice.

Erik was nervous. Giry wasn't home, and it was past midnight. He hadn't been outside the opera house since he was thirteen. And he hadn't been outside a cage since he was twelve. It had only been one year? It had felt like so much more.

Suddenly he didn't care. His hat was pushed over his eyes, his cape settled across broad shoulders. He got lucky. She had managed to drag herself to the doors of the Opera Populaire.

When Erik found her, she looked terrible. She was bruised and blood covered. He carried her to her room; she was too thin. Why hadn't he noticed before?

He took a piece of paper and some ink. His childish writing was scribbled across music staffs.

To my good Managers,

I would request you excuse Mademoiselle Giry from her lessons for the next few days. I am also afraid I must impress on you to present me with my monthly salary of twenty-thousand francs. Please leave box five available for my use, and in it, the money.

Many Thanks,

Opera Ghost

(A/N—This is his first letter to the managers. Of course it's not like it usually is.)

It was halfway through Giry's twenty-first year. She had found out she was pregnant at her last birthday. She remembered the look on Erik's face when she had told him. He had just thought she was simply gaining weight—a feat that had put him in an increasingly good mood.

She had just told him straight up. His face had darkened, and, with a swirl of his cape, he had left. She hadn't seen him since. And Giry couldn't for the life of her figure out why he was so mad. Erik hadn't struck as the kind to get mad simply because society didn't permit it…

Pain raked through her baby's space. And suddenly she knew what was happening. She was going into labor.

Erik had been more upset than anyone knew when she had told him the news. Maybe it was jealousy, the kind he refused to admit to. Maybe it was anger, directed at Jean Martin; the man had disappeared and had never been seen since that fateful night.

"Erik!" He would recognize Giry's voice anywhere. She sounded…so… hurt.

"I'm here." He heard her sigh of relief and then her gasp of pain.

"Doctor!" she yelled. He didn't move from behind her screen, waiting for someone to come. No one did.

Finally he emerged and took her hand. Neither of them had done this before. It didn't seem to matter.

The birth was messy and nearly took everything Giry had. Including her life. "Erik," she gasped out.

"I love you Giry. I'm so sorry for not coming sooner and—"

She cut him off with a shake of her head. "If I die—"

"Don't talk like that."

"Take care of her—"

"You won't die."

"Look M'sieur, where all the children play!"

"I'll care for her."

"Where all the children play…"