A/N: ….More computer troubles….more finals….more sickness. My apologies.
Erik
"His skin is like yellow parchment, stretched taut over protruding bones, almost as though he was given more bone than flesh. His eyes are two deep black sockets with yellow orbs that glow like embers in the dark."
Foolish Buquet…I grinded my teeth as I cursed him from my hiding place, above the stage. I watched him down below, reveling in the glory of being surrounded by a troupe of ballet rats. The crowded at his feet, all eager young imaginations thirsty for one of the Chief Sceneshifter's notorious ghost stories.
"And his nose—there is no nose!"
At this, every young girl gasped loudly. I rolled my eyes. What they found fascinating, I found nauseating. I was growing quite weary of these tall tales. A sudden movement from one of the auditorium doors caught my eye, and I focused in on the figure of a young man, leisurely striding toward the stage.
Ah yes, the other Buquet. The one I had caught poking around Christine's dressing room. I leered at as he hung back from the crowd up onstage. The Buquet Brothers; both meddlesome, tiresome menaces. The younger one I could spare for now, but Joseph…he had grown too familiar at locating my presence; endlessly searching out my secrets. He had to be dealt with, and he would be this very evening.
Maggie
I found Joseph in the auditorium with a herd of ballerinas huddled about him onstage. I stood off in the shadows of the wings, listening to his twisted crock-and-bull story, watching the girls' exaggerated reactions.
"You must be always on your guard or he'll catch you with his Punjab lasso!"
He mimed being strung up by the neck, emitting more gasps from the ballet rats. After explaining exactly what a Punjab lasso was, the group dispersed, and I sauntered out of the wings to meet my brother.
"Not bad." I commented, dryly. "Do you happen to get paid for this little 'hobby'?"
"Stow it, Maggie. He walked away and I followed.
"Hello to you too, Sunshine."
"Did you manage to keep your nose out of trouble within the last hour?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but then thought for a moment. "Define trouble."
When he gave me that authoritative look—the one that says "spill the beans"—I relayed to him the story my small encounter with the two girls I'd met that afternoon.
"Jesus, Maggie." He sighed, grabbing a tool kit and turning to ascend the ladder leading to the first catwalk. I followed close behind.
"It's not like I meant to—"
"—Of course you never mean to, you just do it."
"Hey, don't go rubbing my nose in my mistakes. I'm not the only one who makes them, you know."
We stopped as Joseph hauled a backdrop a partial way up, eying the flaw that needed repair; more particularily, the one caused by my knife the previous evening.
"You say you heard a voice…a man's voice?"
"Hmm? Oh…yeah." I drew my focus back to the conversation.
"But there was no one there."
I rolled my eyes. "Don't go peddling that ghost bollucks to me, Joseph Buquet."
"Everything I've ever said about the ghost is true." He defended himself. "I've seen him with my own eyes!"
"Drunk or sober?" I teased.
"If you don't believe me, I can't help that."
Another long bout of silence rolled by and I watched him work on the canvas. I had something else on my mind, but wasn't quite sure how to start.
"So…what's going on?"
"How d'ya mean, Mags?" By his tone, I could tell he was annoyed.
"Hey, don't get snappy with me. I'm just trying to understand whatever it is I've done to piss you off!"
He sighed again while packing up his tools. "I'm not pissed off at you."
He stood and began lowering the piece of scenery down to the stage.
"Well you're irritated—or miffed—or something!" He started back towards the ladder.
"Never mind, Maggie." His tone warned me not to press the matter any further; which, of course, I did.
"Is it because of Danny?" I questioned, flatly.
Joseph halted, the tool kit in his hand swinging slightly from the abrupt change.
"…Because I used his name?" I continued.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. Then Joseph descended the ladder without a word, dropped the tool kit unceremoniously on a nearby table, and briskly walked away. I called after him from where I still stood up in the catwalk, leaning over a railing.
"You have to get over it sometime, Jo!" I don't know that he heard me, and I felt a familiar wave of grief clutch at my heart.
"I had to."
Joseph
I gratefully inhaled the calming affects of a cigarette, puffing out clouds of smoke that intertwined with clouds of my warm breath against the cool November air. The sun had begun it's slow descent on the western horizon, casting shadows over the city of Paris, becoming eye-level with the Opera's rooftops. I came up here when I most wanted to be alone and try to think…or in some cases, try not to.
Damn that little vixen. I thought, vainly attempting to push Maggie's voice out of my head.
"You have to get over it sometime!"
Isn't that what I've been doing for the past six years? My thoughts hardly ever drifted towards home in the three years I'd been at the Opera Populaire…but they did now. I could still picture that small cottage just outside of Galway in Ireland; could still see Ma standing at the door, our youngest sister, Kessy, in her arms, Pa keeping a firm hold on Maggie's shoulders, her watery eyes never straying from my retreating form as she wailed at me to "stop being an idiot" and come back. But I could never go back. After what happened—with Danny, I knew I would never be welcome in the same way again no matter what anyone said. It wouldn't be forgotten, and things just wouldn't go back to the way they were. It was something Maggie had a very hard time coming to terms with. God bless that girl, she would follow me to the moon if it meant bringing me home. She had to realize that it would never happen.
Maggie
We ate our meal in the 'Buquet Chamber' that evening, since neither of us felt very sociable. There was much to talk about; a dinner conversation which started with a long round of silence.
"You should go home, Maggie. I'm sure Ma and Pa miss you, terribly."
I looked up from my bowl of stew to catch Joseph staring abstractly into his. "Like they don't miss you any less? "
"I can't. go. back. What the hell is so hard to understand about that? I have a new life here, new friends…" he slammed down his spoon, and rose from the table, muttering curses.
"I do understand, I do. But you're letting Danny's accident keep you from going back to people who love and care about you—"
"—They don't look at it as a bloody accident!"
We were both silent a moment before he continued in a steadier tone.
"We'd best get a move on. It's time to set up for tonight's gala." He opened the door, soup bowl in hand, pausing half-way out.
"Just for the record, I've been "getting over this" for six years."
The man lived in constant denial.
"Getting over it? No, more like getting away from it. Don't you ever get tired of running?" I never received an answer.