The second you stepped from the passage back into the dressing room, sounds of chaos met your ears. You rushed through the backstage hallways and into the theater, where you found two of Paul's men fighting in the middle of the stage. Paul and a few others were yelling furiously at them, while a few more were egging them on and cheering. Ugh men.

"What is going on here!?" You yelled, and one of the men on the floor paused mid-swing. The other took that as his chance to punch him, and  the fighting nearly continued until Paul and another crew mate dragged them apart.

"Why are you fighting like a bunch of boys in a street fight?"

"Where have you been?" Paul asked, as if it was your fault they were in a fight. No wonder Monsieur Martin put you in charge.

"I was at the doctors," you said, having come up with a story on your journey back to the surface. "Not that it's any of your business. Now, what is going on here? Why aren't you guys working?"

"Well we started to, but you weren't here."

You gave Paul a stern look as if to say, "and?"

"Look, I know we should have been working, but the men have been on edge lately. After Henri, Jacques and André just disappeared, and now especially that Nicolas is out of the hospital..."

"What?" You asked before you could stop yourself. You'd almost completely forgotten Henri's accusation that Nicolas had been pushed. Now that he was feeling better, what was his story on what had happened? What were you going to do if they suggested it was the Phantom, or even worse, suggested it was you.

"Nicolas got out of the hospital yesterday."

"Did he–Did he ever explain what happened?"

"Yeah, he said his grip slipped and he fell."

You let loose a sigh of relief and hoped no one noticed. Thank god it had actually been an accident. You didn't know what you'd do if they all turned on you.

"But he also said that he doesn't want to come back to work here now with Henri, Jacques and André gone. We're down 4 men now and we're already running behind–"

"So you thought it would be a good idea to start fighting instead of working?"

You raised an eyebrow and looked at the faces of each of the men. The longer you watched them, the more embarrassed they looked by their behavior. Good.

"Let's just forget about it and get back to work. We have a month and one week left to get this opera house in tip top shape for rehearsals to start, but I think that even with 4 less men than before, we should be able to do it, as long as you don't waste any more time fighting. I'll be in the ballroom if you need me."

~

On Friday, the small crew sent to run the furnaces finally showed up and started the long process of getting them ready to heat the entire opera house. By Saturday evening, the opera house's characteristic chill had lessened, and you could finally work without wearing so many layers.

For many days you spent the hours of daylight toiling over the remaining rooms of the opera house. You'd finally finished the ballroom and had been able to move on to the last section of the theater, the dormitories. You did what you could with what was there, but ultimately a lot of new supplies were needed, especially bedding.

When you weren't cleaning what felt like indefinite messes and rooms, you were with Erik, or waiting for him to come and whisk you away. Almost every evening he retrieved you and brought you down to his world of music where you would sit with one another for hours and listen to his music, or talk of musical memories, but mostly listen to his music. He seemed to never grow tired of playing for you, his eyes always burning with affection and wonder each time he realized you were still there beside him.

When he finished playing he would either guide you to your room or you'd fall asleep on his shoulder. Although it was quite embarrassing to find yourself in his bed when you woke up, while you were in it, you never had any nightmares and slept perfectly soundly. He still never joined you though, and you often found yourself wishing he would.

On the following Monday, you and the construction crew spent hours carrying in the hundreds of supplies that had been delivered. Monsieur Martin had neglected to tell you that the delivery crew wouldn't be stepping inside. You attributed it to fear rather than laziness though, and wondered how the Opera Populaire would ever be that again, popular, if no one wanted to set foot inside.

Your Monday afternoon was spent restocking the kitchen and restaurant with missing cooking supplies and decor. The kitchen now had a healthy amount of dishes and utensils, so they wouldn't run out even on a busy night. You then spent a long time folding the napkins on each plate into swans, humming to yourself as you went around to each table.

"Who's the lucky guy?" Paul said, walking into the restaurant with another box of tablecloths and napkins.

"What do you mean?" You asked, a bit startled. Paul had a knowing look on his face.

"That look on your face, I recognize it. It's the exact same one I see on my sister when she watches the baker boy across the street from her bedroom window. You're in love."

Your face immediately reddened in embarrassment. You weren't in love, right? Well, you were thinking of Erik while you were humming. But you weren't in love with him. You weren't, right?

As if sensing your embarrassment and internal war with yourself, Paul left the box and slipped out faster than he'd come in. You continued setting the tables, this time going around and adding candles and centerpieces.

You weren't in love with the Phantom of the opera right? You couldn't be. He'd practically burned this theater down. And he killed people. But if he hadn't burned it down, you'd be living in the streets. And if he hadn't killed them, you would be dead. If he hadn't saved you, spared you, well, you would have been extra dead. And yet, even with that, all of those bad things meant nothing to you with the way he played for you and the way he looked at you, like you were the most important person in the whole world. You'd never been looked at like that before. Oh god, you were in love with him.

What were you going to do? Did he love you back? He certainly played his music and looked at you like he might, and yet he revealed so little of himself to you. You didn't know his last name, or his story, or even know what he really looked like. You wished desperately that he would share those things with you.

As you continued your decorating an idea occurred to you. Perhaps you could coax him into trusting you with a dinner, and not just a plate left for him to find. A real dinner with candles and, hopefully, talking.

Once Paul had bid you adieu and the men had gone home for the evening, you left for the market to buy fresh goods. Surprisingly, you were able to get some steak for a decent price along with some potatoes and broccoli.

Hurrying back to the opera house, you started making your meal. Because of the long work hours it was already somewhat late. While you waited for the food to cook, you selected a table for two and lit its candles. You managed to make everything successfully without burning yourself or spilling anything this time, at least, until Erik snuck up behind you.

"What are you doing?"

You jumped and let out a slight shriek, nearly dropping the plate full of food that you were holding. When you turned you found Erik looking at you with amusement.

"How do you do that?!" You somewhat laughed.

"Do what?"

"Sneak around like you actually are a ghost."

Erik gave a sort of shrug with his shoulders to imply he didn't really know.

"I'm making us dinner," you responded to his earlier question. Handing him his plate, you asked, "will you join me?"

"Yes."

He followed you into the dining room of the restaurant, where you led him to the small table you'd made ready for your dinner. The moment he sat down across from you, you detected nervousness on his face. While you were nervous too, you knew you were going to have to break the ice between you two somehow.

"Will you tell me about your life? Your story?" You asked.

Erik's uncomfortable posture and gaze grew, and his nervousness spread. Now he looked only at his plate before him instead of in your eyes, as he fiddled with one of the swan napkins you'd folded.

You decided to start by sharing yours, hoping he would be inclined to share after you divulged your life to him. So you told him of your mother's love and your father's disdain and disinterest of you, of your life hidden away and without mirrors, and of your mother's death that shattered your life. Without her to protect you, your father had little reason to pretend he cared. You told him how almost everything you'd had left of her, especially the locket which she promised would be yours, had been stolen away. It was now around the neck of your father's new lover, and the women who'd encouraged him to cast you out.

When you finished your tale, you looked toward Erik expectantly. Sensing that you were trying to tell him it was his turn, his eyes grew dark and his posture shifted once again.

"I promise not to judge you," you offered, smiling hopefully.

"My story is not a happy one," he replied finally.

He looked at you again, and you pleaded with your eyes. Erik released a sigh and dove into the lament filled story of his past. He told you of his birth in Rouen, of his mother's instant disdain for him, of running away and being kidnapped by a traveling circus where they exploited his looks, and of his escape to the opera house he now called home. But he, unexpectedly, did not stop there. He told you even of his infatuation with Christine and of what he saw as his downfall. As his story met its end, you wiped your eyes, realizing you were crying. His life had been much worse than yours, at least you'd had one parent who loved you, even though she was now gone.

"I suppose you think poorly of me now, now that I've revealed everything I've done."

"No," you said, without hesitation. His gaze moved to yours quickly, surprise on his face. For a moment he seemed to study your face for any indication that you were lying to him.

"I would never think that of you. We are the damned, those who society doesn't want. But... but that doesn't mean that I don't want you. Will you show me, Erik? Please?"

The momentary astonishment and adoration that had colored his face at your confession instantly disappeared at your request. He looked angry and scared and sad all at once. Suddenly, he rose from the table, and your heart dropped. He was going to run away, to leave you. You knew you shouldn't have asked. You should have expected he would deny you again.

And you thought he was, but he didn't. Instead, Erik knelt down beside your chair at the table and looked up at you, eyes dark with worry. He took your left hand in his gloved one, and lifted it gently to the right side of his face, where his mask hid what was beneath. You looked into his eyes then, to make sure he was telling you to do what you thought he was. With one final glance, he closed his eyes in fear. He didn't know if he could bare seeing the disgust on your face.

Taking a shaky breath, you lifted the mask from his cheek. Almost the entire right side of his face looked blistering and red, as if he'd been burned horribly at a young age and it had never healed. He had no right eyebrow, and you realized then that he was wearing a wig too. And yet, none of it startled you. While it was so different from your own face, you couldn't help but feel as if you were staring into a mirror. You realized then as you stared into his eyes that you still wanted to kiss him.

So you did. Leaning down towards him, you cupped his face and kissed his marred cheek not once but twice. His face was so warm. His eyes flew open then, trying to make sense of what he was seeing and feeling before him. You looked at him with the adoration you often saw in his own eyes, and went to kiss him again, this time aiming for his lips. As he realized what you were doing, his hands found your face and tangled in your hair, using them to bring you closer to him still. His first kiss on your lips had been soft, almost unknowing, but the second had been passionate, hungry.

You only parted with one another long enough for gasps of air, as you resumed cradling one another and kissing hungrily. It was then as you parted that you realized he was nearly crying, and you wiped his cheek delicately with your thumb before meeting his soft, warm lips in another kiss. Neither of you wanted to let the other go.