For my brother, the reason why I keep writing.

Much love to my darling reviewers! I hope something wonderful happens to each and every one of you.

When I last posted a chapter, I didn't expect a year to pass before the next chapter was finished. The bulk of this I'd say was written before April 2015, with the projected expectation of a new chapter by June. But as it happens, 2015 moved much faster than I could have expected, and time slipped from my fingers faster than words appeared on my screen. Much has changed, but the one thing that has not changed is the endless love I feel for my best friend; as he reads this, he'll know that he has hearted a story that perhaps is little more than a farce, but which holds much meaning to me and is dedicated to him nonetheless.

Disclaimer: If I owned Phantom, maybe I could actually afford the tickets to see the show.

"I'm tackling a problem today."

Meg looked up from her drawing at Erik's desk. "Which one?"

"The fact that I need access to Christine's dressing room, and I only have access to Number Five."

"What is it with you and the number five?"

Erik shrugged. "Maybe it's the roman numeral. V. Victory! Vengeance! Vintage!"

"Vintage like your turn-of-the-century outfit?"

"Hush. I make it fabulous. In any case! Right now she's in the communal dressing room; I need her in one of the private ones."

"But those are only reserved for leads!"

"I know. So I have to write to M. Lefevre. But how do I do so without making my intention obvious?"

Meg pushed the heels of her hands into the desk, leaning her chair back on its hind legs. "Hmm. Tell him that the communal dressing rooms are getting crowded; if he wishes to avoid another fire in there, move several of the female dancers into private dressing rooms. I think three are open."

"That's good. I like that. Here, move your stuff. I need to work." Erik stood and Meg quickly swept up her drawings into a folder, which she carefully placed in the back of Erik's right hand bottom drawer. She slid out of her friend's chair and watched him take his seat, selecting a sheet of parchment and a calligraphy pen from its inkwell. He stretched out his writing arm to free his wrist from its sleeve and began to write, Meg observing over his shoulder.

Dear Lefevre,

Please rethink your options. The dressing rooms are clearly packed. Lest you aim to enflame them like last year's shame, I advise that you move several dancers into private rooms, next week, to be exact!

-O.G.

Erik blew on the red ink to help it set and, when it was dry, folded it carefully into thirds before slipping into a black-edged envelope and sealing it with a skull of red wax. "There we are," he said triumphantly, passing the letter to Meg. "If you would please, pass this on to your mother so she can give it to Monsieur Lefevre."

"Sure thing." Meg yawned and glanced at Erik's grandfather clock. "I don't think I'll be back; I'm going to get something to eat and start getting ready for rehearsals."

"Alright. If you notice anything strange, alert me at once. I haven't been able to stalk about between the walls as often as I'd like to."

"Keep working on that wedding dress. You ever think maybe you need an assistant?"

"Meg, you ARE my assistant."

"Am I? Hmm, maybe I should start charging for my services."

Erik leveled a glare towards Meg's sly face. She waggled her fingers in a parting wave. "See ya, Ghosty!" Meg's blonde hair disappeared around a hidden exit, leaving Erik shaking his head with a tired sigh and fond smile, pushing away from his desk to work on his project.

Alexandre didn't sleep in his dorm room anymore.

It had been difficult enough to sleep knowing that he was in love with the person who slept soundly in the bed beside him, but now to know that the object of his affections was in love with someone else... It was unbearable. He couldn't stand the idea of being near Duront while on bad terms; they hadn't spoken since before the stage light crashed near Carlotta during Lover's Lament, and, while he tried to tell himself this was a good thing, it was tearing him apart. He wanted to be the reason for Duront's smile again. But here he was torn: Alexandre was extremely stubborn, and refused to make the first move yet again. Was it so bad to want Duront to reach out to him for once, rather than the other way around? It wasn't bad to want that, but Alexandre had to admit that it was bad to expect that. It wouldn't ever happen. Now that Duront had someone new, it was likely that he didn't even spare a thought for Alexandre. And dreadful, dreadful, now was that Alexandre missed the sound of Duront breathing beside him. Alexandre never realized how much that had helped him sleep, until he'd lost it. Now he slept away from Duront, in the communal dressing rooms, curled up on the edge of the couch where shoes and frames weren't piled. He had considered pushing them off, but better, he thought, if no one knew he'd made this place his little domain. Head resting on the arm of the couch, huddled in a blanket, Alexandre thought of him and nothing else, him, and all the things that could not be.

Christine was humming the Jewel Song in her dorm room, cleaning her area and organizing under her bed (which was where she tossed most of her things when she was in a hurry). One thing Christine had started noticing about herself is that she couldn't just throw things away. She saved everything believing that it could be used later. It was really bad. Meg got after her about it a lot. Christine grimaced as she slid bags and stockings and books-THERE was her copy of Candide!-out from under the bed, biting her lower lip in a sort of shameful concentration. It wasn't often that Christine felt the urge to clean, but when she did, she adopted an unwavering determination and a strong one-track mentality until the job was-

Oh, what was that? Christine gave a delighted gasp of recognition as she pulled a white leather journal from beneath some clutter. She sat down and crossed her legs, hovering over the small book with gold-edged pages before cracking it open.

Dear Journal,

Father gave me this diary for my birthday! I am going to write in it every day. I am going to write down all of the things I do so that when I am famous some one will read it and it will be special. Mamma Valerius gave me a beutiful red scarf wich I will wear on happy days. My best freind came over and brought me flowers, and they are on the table. He is 7 and I turned 5. I will never be as old as 7!

Christine laughed.

"I thought I might find you here."

Meg's head shot up to find Duront's penetrating gaze and lopsided smile. Lighting up, she motioned for him to join her on the other end of the table where she sat with a small cup of soup; he moved slowly as he slid into the seat, never taking his eyes off of her.

"Are you going to get anything?" Meg nodded toward the line of available food.

Duront shook his head. "I rarely eat lunch."

Meg started. "A dancer like you? Why not?"

"I don't have the desire," he drawled, rolling his head so as to stretch his neck.

Meg observed his movements with interest, dipping a spoon into her soup but not eating. "Excited for rehearsals?"

"Will you be there?"

Meg wrinkled her nose. "Obviously. I have t-"

"Then yes. I'm excited."

Meg's lip twitched up.

"Raoul."

The name was familiar in a melancholy way, almost foreign for not having said it in so long. It was a name from childhood, one of sunlight peeking through clouds and sand between toes and creaky wooden steps on a staircase. It was the warmth of the sun on your face on a cold early autumn day.

"Raoul," Christine whispered again, just to taste the name on her tongue as her eyes froze on a diary page.

She's quite forgotten about Raoul. He was ages ago, a lifetime ago, a tiny faithful joy in a past she'd all but blocked out. She knew why she'd let go of his sweet memory: he'd been tied to her father. Yes, tied to her father, whom she couldn't bear to remember for fear of crying. Raoul appeared often in Christine's childhood diary. She felt her heart swell with affection as she recalled their childish love, the way he'd pick her up so she could be just as tall as him, how they would pretend her father's great old bed was a majestic ship carrying them across the sea to new and unexplored land; and how he would try to serenade her with no knowledge of proper musicianship and how his hoarse lilting would make them laugh and laugh and laugh to the point where they forgot sadness and everything was gold. Christine tucked the journal to her chest as if it could heal the tightness there.

"Raoul," she murmured.

The Angel of Music held an expanse of lace in his hands. He fingered the soft flowered pattern with adoration, thinking that one day, and soon, this cloth would know Christine's gentle figure. A shell of the dress was pinned onto the mannequin already, a slip of white to which he'd sew the rest of the gown. It was going to be his most extravagant project, and none could inspire it but his Christine.

Erik pressed the lace to his malformed lips. "Marry me," he breathed.

Monsieur Lefevre's mustache puckered over his frown at the sight of the skull of red wax. Those letters never bore good news. What would it be now? Rats in the corridors? A demanded increase in salary? A celloist "obviously" stricken with tuberculosis? It could be anything. A sweat broke out across Lefevre's brow as he broke the seal to the black-edged letter.

Duront slid his hand beneath Meg's, and her heart caught. He reveled in her quiet but sharp intake of breath, thinking how lucky he was to have found such a lovely distraction. How had he failed to notice her before?

"Both of our parents are involved in the opera program," Duront mused, studying her hand in his.

"It's a wonder we never really connected before," Meg agreed, taken.

Duront turned a sharp gaze to hers, startling the girl who was used to slow methodical movements. "It's almost like we were meant to find each other."

"Almost," she responded, with a voice crack. God, I sound so stupid. Can't I do any fucking thing right?

A smile twisted Duront's mouth. "May I escort you to your dormitory?"

"Absolutely," Meg sighed in relief, rising from the table.

"How about you finish your soup first," Duront chuckled, pressing her fingers.

"Oh," she muttered, sitting back down to her quite forgotten soup. "Right."

Monsieur Lefevre sighed, folding the letter back up. It wasn't as bad as he'd suspected. He'd just move the best three or four dancers into private rooms and that would be the end of it. He sucked in a deep breath, just to feel the air fill up his lungs as if to test the presence of pain where his heart was failing. He awaited the month's end with heady anticipation, knowing that soon he'd be rid of the opera house and the opera ghost and the opera star and every part of every opera altogether, forever. He'd never again feel like he was being watched. He'd never again hear footsteps in an empty hall or have to answer to blood-drenched letters that had controlled him since his work began.

He penned a quick note instructing its recipient to assign a few members into private dressing rooms, and slid it into Madame Giry's assigned compartment of duties. She'd be best to deal with this, he reasoned.

"People are watching," Meg murmured to Duront, who kept her arm bent in his.

"Let them," he told her. "They just want what we have."

"What do we have?" Meg dared, swallowing her heartbeat.

Duront smirked. "Companionship?"

A blush colored Meg's cheeks. "Yes. I suppose."

The tiniest dancer, the one with wild red hair and quick movements, gaped at Meg and Duront, walking arm in arm.

"The scandal," Duront whispered in Meg's ear, sarcasm tainting the fluidity of his voice.

Meg snickered as they came to a stop in front of the dorm she shared with Christine.

"Till rehearsal, mademoiselle?"

"Till then."

Duront caught Meg's hand and pressed it to his lips in the most fleeting of kisses. "Au revoir."

He smirked his special smirk, and left.

"Au revoir," Meg whispered.

Alexandre pressed his ear to the door of his dormitory, and, hearing no movement inside, pushed his key into the lock and entered.

Good Lord, it smelled like him. The warm part of him. The softness and the sharpness. He'd forgotten how it felt walking into the dorm.

Crossing to his bed, Alexandre pulled on the costume shoes he'd need for rehearsals that day. Sitting on a bed felt odd after a few nights on the dressing room couch.

The sound of a key in the door sent Alexandre's head shooting straight up, a great thud taking command of his heart. Duront pushed open the door, and froze at the sight of Alexandre.

"Hi," he said, shock winning out as the predominant tone over friendliness.

Alexandre didn't feel himself answer, but a barely murmured "H'lo" hung in the empty space between them.

"Haven't seen you in a while." Duront moved to one of the drawers beside his bed, keeping his eyes low as he moved to grab a pair of shoes for rehearsals.

What is he thinking? "Yeah."

A silence passed. "Meg thinks you should come back." It wasn't true, it wasn't even halfway true, because he'd never told Meg about Alexandre leaving and he was pretty sure she didn't even know that her dance partner for Lover's Lament was his own roommate. Duront knew it was a lie, but he just felt compelled to say it, as if saying that would make his friend come back. It was lonely in an empty dorm. He needed his friend; he had important stuff he wanted to gossip about.

Jealousy boiled Alexandre's spine. It wasn't a sharp, open flame; it was a slow, building, intense heat that spread throughout his whole body. "Well, maybe I don't want to come back," he spat. The words came out a bit harsher than he'd intended, but the damage was already done; Duront's head jerked back like it did when he felt threatened or challenged and a retort was already formulating behind his eyes. Alexandre almost wanted to shrink back, but the anger inside him just kept building.

"Maybe you never belonged here in the first place."

The words were like a lash across his chest, but it didn't kill the fire.

"Maybe I should just leave!" Alexandre was shouting now, a product of fury and the long-buried resentment suddenly bubbling up and forcing every insecurity he'd held down to take his voice.

"Well, fine! Go! I don't need you!" Duront glared at Alexandre as he stalked across their dorm and put a hand on the doorknob.

Alexandre turned, very slowly, to face Duront.

"I never needed you."

And with that, Duront was left alone.

"Christine, I love you," Meg said suddenly.

Christine gave Meg a rapturous smile, not knowing why Meg had spoken up but recognizing the beautiful gift that was Meg's love. "I love you, too," she purred, stretching out her hand. Meg took it and gave Christine's fingers a squeeze, as if that little squeeze could convey just how much she appreciated her best friend. All of a sudden, she felt appreciative of everything. She was so happy. And here Christine was, so blissfully and innocently happy, too, and they could share their happiness through the little things, like squeezing fingers. Christine pressed back on Meg's hand with a little nod of acknowledgement, and the two released their hands. Christine tucked a small white journal underneath her bed, and Meg grabbed a pair of shoes from her bedside drawer.

"Don't forget the jeweled pointes today," Meg reminded her friend.

"Oh!" Christine leapt up and started at her drawer, then remembered she'd put them in their shared closet. "Thank you."

"Mhm."

A moment passed as the two occupied themselves with their special shoes for Act III, scene 4.

"Have I ever told you about Raoul?" Christine bit her lip, almost regretting having brought it up, but she just HAD to talk to somebody about the memories she'd relived through her journal.

"Raoul? I don't believe so." Meg untied the bow on her laces in hopes of tying a better one.

Christine continued, delighted. "He was a childhood friend of mine. We did everything together. I've been remembering him a lot today."

Meg glanced up at Christine, whose eyes were bright with feverish joy. "Did you like him?"

"I loved him," Christine declared. "He was a brave sailor. I mean, we used to play pretend, and he was the sailor and I was a lost princess, or a pirate queen, or a damsel in distress, and... Oh, the games we'd make up! Father had this big, four-poster bed and we would pretend it was a boat. He'd make a fine sailor."

Worry clenched Meg's heart. Erik. "How long has it been since you've seen him?"

Christine's smile saddened. "Since right before Father died. I rather miss him."

Meg tried her best to look sympathetic, though inside she was relieved. Erik couldn't ask her to marry him if she was in love with someone else. "I'm sorry."

"I wonder what he's doing now?" A pensive Christine crossed to the door. "Ready?"

"Yes." Meg jumped up with a true dancer's grace, and the two headed out.

It was the biggest lie he'd ever told.

Alexandre would always need Duront, and he always had.

So why did he say he didn't?

Alexandre needed to walk. He couldn't go to rehearsals knowing that his little dance partner was staring at the object of his affections the entire time. As if tiny Meg knew Duront like he did. Perhaps if he told her of Duront's drinking habit, she'd leave him... Tell her about the dozens of girls he'd loved and left before acceding to his father's suggestion of joining the Opera Populaire, almost as a form of punishment. But of course, how could he do that? Disgusted as he was, didn't Alexandre want his friend to be happy?

I suppose there comes a point where you have to choose whose happiness means more to you... The one you love, or your own.

Alexandre burst through a door that led down a very long series of steps. Coldness seemed to emanate from the very walls; it felt calming to his burning skin. The door shut with a vibrating thud behind him, leaving Alexandre walking down the stretching flight of stairs veiled in darkness. Every step had an echo and he couldn't see the end of the stairs. He'd miss rehearsal. He didn't care. He wanted to know where the tunnel ended.

A small tapping noise was all that could have aroused Erik from a very comfortable position next to his precious Christine mannequin. Groggily, he stepped around remaining patterns and fabric to reach the west wall of his lair, where most of his traps were set up. Thus, the source of the tapping noise. Someone was in the East Staircase.

Erik had been cooped up for too long. He hadn't truly frightened anyone in a while. With a dastardly grin, Erik swept his cloak over his shoulder, pressed a parting kiss to Christine's sweet plaster cheek, and vanished into the entryway for the East Staircase.

"Meg, Sorelli, Dominique, Christine. Come see me, please." Madame Giry turned and walked offstage. The four girls bobbed up from their stretches and followed quickly.

When they were all congregated, Madame Giry looked each of them in the eye. "The four of you have been chosen to be moved into private dressing rooms. Effective immediately after today's rehearsal. Meg, room one, Sorelli, room two, Dominique, room three, and Christine, I have you in room four."

"What about room five?" Meg piped up unthinkingly.

Madame Giry shook her head. "Reserved for the leads. I could only choose four. Now, back to your stretches, unless any more impertinent comments are to be made."

"Thank you," squeaked the girls, and they scurried back to the stage.

So four rooms had been open. Room Five was not being used. Every number after that was used by Carlotta and the other lodged principals.

Meg glanced at Christine, who was seated with her legs stretched before her and her hands wrapped around her toes. She thought of Christine's loveliness and innocence and she thought of Erik and of Raoul and Meg knew what had to happen.

She had to get Christine in Room Five.

Please review! xoxo

Love

Anna