10
in which erik meets a songbird.

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Once they arrived in New York City, Meg was slack-jawed as she viewed the landscape around her, nearly coming to a stand-still multiple times as she observed the scenery. It was sunny - which was so very different from that morning - and warm, and though there was some sort of stench, it bothered her none. For the first time during her journey, she forgot of everything wrong, and instead, began to imagine everything right.

The trio and a community of other French were ushered toward a small set of buildings, almost like a neighborhood, Meg thought. The ground beneath them was dirty, and the trees across the street were few and far between, and looking about her, she recognized none but Erik and her mother.

Moving away from the tight grasp of Madame Giry, she gravitates closer to Erik, glancing up at him. "Where are we?" She whispers, glancing about them, her forehead scrunched with confusion.

"The Lower East Side of Manhattan. We have no means of wealth, and the cost of living in this area is small." He turns to her, now, and cocks an eyebrow, as if amused. "Not grand enough for you?"

"Weren't you paid some-thousands of francs a month? What do you mean 'no means of wealth'? And it's not that . . . I just . . . " She trails off, and her mother went to her side, and wrapped an arm about her shoulders, as if noticing her distress. "Oh, Maman, this is so very different from the dormitories," she frets. She felt heat rise to her cheeks and chest as she felt her shame and turmoil mingle in her stomach. She didn't want to say it aloud, but it made her uncomfortable imagining living in such close quarters with those of the opposite sex. She ponders her time with Erik on the ship, but reason told her there would only be one bed per tenement. And what of others? Could she hope that it would only be them three in a tenement?

"Right this way," a woman stated in what Meg noted as a bad French accent, quickly waving toward another couple who stood near them after. They were both older, perhaps in their seventies, and the woman was carrying a small, sleeping infant. They seemed weathered and gray, yet Meg also thought she saw a beam of hope in their eyes. After climbing numerous sets of stairs, to the point where Meg felt her ankle throb with pain and pressure, the woman finally said, "Just through this door here."

Once inside, the blonde was shocked at the bright, vibrant colors that were painted inside. A shocking blue - a lightning hue that she might expect from a dance costume - surrounded her, and from what she could see, the other two rooms. The bedroom was small, holding a decently-sized bed and a window just above it. She moves closer, and upon further inspection, sees a black dresser inside, and a mahogany rocking chair shoved into the corner. The kitchen, adjacent to the bedroom, was tiny, holding only cabinets and a stove.

Meg looked back at the group, and her gaze landed on the couch shoved against the wall, under a large window. The older couple had already lay upon it, clean and dustless, and their hands were clasped tightly together. Her mother sat upon a chair that was gathered around a dining table, and set her cane against the edge of it.

A few moments later, fussing and then a muffled cry envelope the home. Meg startles glancing over, and sees the older woman whispering gently to the child, running her hand over the child's small swath of red curls in an effort to comfort. Unfortunately, this was to no avail.

She didn't need Erik to explain in order to feel the swarms of nervous and annoyed energy racing through him. She could see it in the way his posture stiffens, his shoulders crunch, and his jaw tightened. He turns around, facing the wall, and Meg ignores this, hurrying toward the woman in order to offer her a blanket she pulled from her bag.

"Perhaps the child is cold?" Meg asks, holding the blanket out toward the woman, and she takes it graciously, carefully swaddling the small thing in the pastel pink cloth. This seems to sooth the baby, though it continued to fuss until his thumb - Meg thought it rather looked like a boy - traveled to its mouth. Blissful silence filled the room after, and Erik's shoulders dropped.

Madame Giry seemed to have fallen asleep the instant she sat in the chair, and hadn't been bothered by the child's cries at all.

"Is it a boy?" Meg asks, and the woman nods, smiling fondly at him. "What's his name?"

"Robin," she replies. "His mother's voice could have healed the world, and something tells me he's a little songbird, too."

Questions arose in her head, wondering why the parents, or at least his mother, weren't traveling with them. However, she bit her tongue. "He's darling," Meg swoons, and kneels down beside the woman, gazing down at the boy. "And so handsome in pink!"

"I daresay the color suits him better than I!" She exclaims, chuckling softly as to not disturb Robin. His eyes were wide and open now, gazing up at Meg and the green of his eyes were startling, reminding her of the emeralds that her father had given Maman on her birthday many years ago. The thought of him once again sent pain tumbling through her, but crushed the emotion in her fist by her side.

"My name is Meg," the blonde greets cheerfully, forcing a smile, though joy erupted through her at the sight of the couple's clasped hands and the quiet peace of Robin. "My maman, Isabelle, is the one asleep on the chair."

"Is that your husband?" The woman asks, and Meg nods, though her fingers tangle nervously together behind her back.

"Oui, madame. That's my husband, Etienne," the blonde replies, and Erik turns, then, over his left shoulder, only showing the bare, whole side of his face. As the light settled upon his features, the thin, white outline became visible on his forehead and nose, and a shadow was cast across his lips from the mask. Meg prayed that neither would ask. Thankfully, they remained calm. Even when he turned completely, neither seemed startled.

"Newlyweds, I assume?" She grins down at Meg, and she blushes, her eyes lowering to the babe.

"Yes, I suppose. Everything is rather new, isn't it?" He replies, before spinning on his heels and walking toward the kitchen, the back of his poet's shirt untucked and wrinkled.

"I beg your pardon?" The man says now, almost taken aback, as if offended. Confusion screwed his features, though strangely enough, not the skin of his left cheek.

"Ignore him," she says, casting a glare toward the kitchen, to which he fully ignored as he leaned against the cabinets, setting Maman's bag on the table before him. "I promise he's not always like this."

Behind her, Meg heard her maman snort loudly.

"Oh, so you're awake now?" The blonde acknowledges, her eyebrow arched in humor as she turns toward the former ballet mistress.

"Sheer disrespect can arouse any mother," she retorts, and Erik grumbles, removing his violin case from the bag. He carefully places it on the table, wrapping it delicately in a blanket to preserve what little warmth was left in the case, before reaching into his pockets and removing his notebook and a black pencil.

Shocking them all, the older man laughs, his mouth opening to reveal a toothy grin. "I suppose there will never be a dull day with you lot. I'm George, and this is my wife, Fleur."

"Wonderful to meet you!" Meg responds, rolling to a sitting position to take the pressure off of her foot.

"As we are, too," Fleur agrees, glancing down at the red-headed infant in her arms.

It was simple and small conversation after that, eventually leading to words exchanged between just Maman and Fleur. The sky then slowly began to darken as the afternoon approached, and Meg felt her stomach grumble with hunger. Turning to look over her shoulder, she glimpsed Erik buried into the pages of his work, scribbling words and ideas and sketches. She quietly rose, inching her way over to the kitchen, and made a grab for her mother's bag. Before she could swipe it, his fingers latch around her wrist, and his eyes sought hers.

"It wasn't brought to my knowledge that anything in here belongs to you, Meg," he says, and she shakes his grip, letting her hand drop down to her side.

"Didn't Maman put those croissants from yesterday in the bag? I'm famished," she explains, gesturing toward the bag again, and he shoves it toward her. She quickly grabs two, hard and wrapped in cloth. She offers one to Erik, who shakes his head and waves her off.

"Erik, when have you last eaten? You weren't hungry yesterday, either," she questions, drawing closer to him, but he freezes, holding his hand out toward her again, as if asking to keep space between them. She stops, her fingers flitting down toward her hand, and back up to land on the bare side of his face. "Are you alright?" She asks softly, lowering her voice so the others wouldn't hear them.

"I'm fine, Meg, stop your senseless worrying," he snaps, and something red and hot plunges into her chest. Did he not understand that if he didn't eat, he would become sick? How foolish, she thought, for him to drive himself to starvation, when still there was much left to be done! She inhales deeply, trying to calm her nerves, and instead focuses on his own emotions. She remembers that this is the way he processes frustration and pain, and it was nothing against her. At least, a part of her hoped.

"Erik, please -"

"Please what?" His words were sharp and biting, no higher than a whisper. His eyes were angry, so angry that Meg could have swore she saw them nearly flash crimson. "I said I am not hungry. I've neither the patience for you, nor your excruciatingly annoying company. Leave me be."

Before she could say much more, he stands, as if sensing her need to do so, and swiftly exits the tenement. She heard his quick footsteps, hurrying above them, as he went higher and higher. She thought he may be going to the roof, but soon enough, he went farther than what she could hear.

Tears sprung to her eyes at his words, all weighing heavily on her, and she turned from the three pairs of curious eyes staring her way as they began to tumble down her cheeks. She felt her mother loom behind her, palms resting on her shoulders before turning the blonde her way. Gentle fingers wiped her tears away, brushing hair behind her ears before pulling her into an embrace. Meg quickly wrapped her arms around her mother, burying her head into the ballet mistress's shoulder.

"I don't understand - " Meg chokes out, and her mother quickly shushes her, running a hand down the length of her flaxen strands. Her appetite melted away, though her mother forced her to sit and nibble on the croissant. The older couple silently left the main room, which Meg was grateful for, and they closed the bedroom door behind them.

"Why did he upset you so?" The older woman questions, and Meg brings her palm across her right cheek, collecting the new tears there.

"It's stupid. I know what he said isn't true, but it still hurts hearing harsh words such as his," Meg tearfully explains, glancing down at the table and the empty cloth.

"What did he say?" She asks, and behind her question, Meg could tell, was anger.

"It doesn't matter," she says, bringing her arms around herself, hugging tightly.

A beat, and then, "Alright. But this isn't the only thing that's bothering you, is it?"

"He's just so frustrating!" Meg exclaims, her arms bursting forth and hands spreading wide. "He'll be fine one moment, and infuriating the next! I know, I know, you don't have to tell me, he wasn't always this way, and there's good in him, but it's no excuse! On no grounds does he have the right to treat me this way, ever! Neither does anyone!"

"You're right, Meg," her mother agrees, drawing her a shocked look on her daughter's face. "And I'm surprised to hear that this has upset you so - has there been more going on? When I'm not there?"

"Oh, Maman . . . " Meg begins, clearing her throat. "I suppose. I thought . . . I thought we'd come to . . . "

Her mother leans forward to capture the blonde's hands within her own. "I think what is so difficult, right now, is how confused you may be. How can someone act like this? How can someone commit the things he's done? How can he be a friend one moment, and an enemy the next?"

Meg nods, shrugging. "I think that's part of it."

"Dear girl, you have so much kindness in your heart," the brunette woman commends, standing to bring Meg back into her arms. "It's not your burden to save him, to heal him. He is the only one that can do that. It's not your job to carry his guilt, his pain, or his grief."

Meg doesn't reply, only holds her mother tighter. She felt tears gather in her eyes once more, but none fell.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"We have very little money, Maman," Meg assesses, counting the coins for the third time. "I daresay enough for a few meals - for the three of us combined - for a few weeks."

"That's more than enough, for the time being," she promises, sitting beside her daughter at the table. She was cradling Robin in her arms as the older couple napped in the bedroom. Without a question, the two of them had decided it would be best for the elderly couple to take the bedroom. The child's cradle was placed in the middle of the room, wooden and small, and aided for the baby to fall into a peaceful rest. He fell asleep quickly in Madame Giry's arms, however, and Meg could tell how much she enjoyed holding an infant, as if she had missed it.

"Alright, Maman," Meg agrees, though silently amended that, perhaps, it would be best for her to find work. Erik certainly wouldn't be able to work publicly, and she worried for her mother's health in such conditions.

It had been hours since Erik had left, and Madame Giry worried aloud every time it seemed as if it were going to rain, though thankfully, it never did.

Around dinner time, George and Fleur returned from their evening stroll they'd begun nearly an hour before, holding a basket of freshly baked bread. Meg, immediately smelling the fresh aroma the moment they stepped through the doorway, shoved her own stale croissant to the side.

"It seems as if our neighbor is a talented cook," Fleur says, grinning as Madame Giry brings Robin to her, exchanging the child with the dinner. "No more than a few pennies!"

Fleur fussed at the baby for a few moments, tucking the fiery-haired infant into his cradle before joining the rest of them at the table, passing around fresh bread.

"Has you husband returned yet?" Fleur asks, and Meg folds her hands in her lap, flushing as she glances down.

"I'm afraid not. He can get this way sometimes - I fear he doesn't adapt to change well, and I've only just now discovered this," Meg explains, nearly stuttering. She realized that their aliases were married - written down, even - but they had no sort of marriage certification to produce. Would they ever need such a thing?

"Oh, Meg, dear," Fleur says, reaching across the table to grasp the blonde's hands. "I remember when George and I were first married. It certainly wasn't by choice - an arrangement our parents had long before I'd even considered marriage. We certainly didn't get along at first. I shoved him into a river one time, simply because he took offense to my color of dress!"

"Now that is not what happened, my dear," George cut in, but Fleur shot a look to him, and grinned, as if amused.

"That is absolutely what happened. But besides that, we came to bond over the opera. And how quickly I fell for him when he took me, every Friday evening. The way he spoke of music, it was as if he were speaking of the heart itself."

Meg's heart swelled at her words. She'd craved independence, craved the prospect of choosing her future instead of being tied to another, but how she'd seen love affect so many others! It enthralled her, the way Christine spoke of Raoul (even how she'd spoken of her angel), and how Fleur spoke of her husband just now. What she would give, Meg thought, to make a connection such as that.

"That's beautiful," Meg replies, and Fleur grasps her hands tighter, a kind and knowing look gleaming in her eyes.

"Though I don't know much of you or your marriage, I can see you care for him, Meg." She nearly raised offense, nearly denying it, but knew it was love she spoke of. Meg certainly didn't love him - sometimes she wished she could hate him - but she'd grown to care for that ornery man, whether she'd admit or not. She remembered that night he'd taken her beneath the stars, coaxed the soprano from her throat, and set off her dream of becoming a star. At that, she felt a swirling of emotions in her stomach, something deeply rooted in affection, and suddenly, forgiveness seemed more attainable than it had a few moments ago. "Perhaps you should seek him out. He doesn't seem like the type to talk of his emotions, but for you, he must learn how."

"He's just . . . He's been through so much . . ." Meg attempts to explain, but Fleur waves her off, and she feels her mother gently grasp her shoulder in a comforting manner. "It might be better off just leaving him be."

After a beat of silence, Fleur detracts her hands from Meg's and gathers a few croissants in the basket before covering the top with the long, blue cloth, effectively trapping the heat within. "Go find him, Meg."

"I -" She begins, but Madame Giry cuts in, prompting Meg to turn slightly toward her.

"Meg, perhaps it would be better to stay behind -"

"Oh, nonsense! If he is still high above on the roof, it will be a romantic sight. Some time to get away from us old loonies," George replies, and Meg saw her mother's eye twitch.

She wanted to say no, to stay behind, but a part of her knew that somewhere in those actions would be the right one. And besides - it was cold outside, and the longer he stayed atop the roof, the more of a chance he could catch a cold.

"It's alright, Maman. I'll just go up to bring him back," she promises quickly, before her mother could admonish anyone. "Only a few minutes."

"Don't worry, dear; we won't be counting," Fleur winks, and Meg blushes as she darts out of the door, a heavier coat about her newly-changed clothes, hugging her form, as she dashed up the stairs, the basket of bread in hand.

The building was nearly seven stories high, and after a quick skim, saw they were placed on the fifth floor. Those it was only two flights of stairs, they still winded Meg, especially as she climbed higher. It was foggy and a chill stung the air, but still, she sought out the man who'd said such horrible words to her. A heavy thought came to her realization, that they would most likely never be able to live harmoniously. Especially if her career was on the line - would he ever take it from her if he was cross with her?

If that be the case, then perhaps she should run while she still could.

She came upon the roof, finally, and saw Erik on the edge, sat on the concrete, his legs dangling as he glanced down at his notebook. She thought she spotted a sketched image of Christine, but he'd heard her the moment she'd stepped onto the roof.

"I thought I'd made it plenty clear I wanted solitude, Miss Giry," he spits, and she recoils, fisting her free hand before stepping forward again.

"I once told you I would not stand for your insults, and that still stands now. Why do you attack me in such ways?" She asks, controlling her temper as she keeps distance between them both.

He stays quiet, and Meg spots his finger gently grazing the cover of the notebook, as if it were something precious, something to be kept close and treasured. She loomed closer, stepping until she was directly behind him, and when he didn't flinch or lash out, she carefully sits beside him.

"What are you doing?" He asks, recoiling away from her slightly as his eyes turn to meet hers.

"Sitting beside you," she says, kicking her feet in front of her and glancing down. She gulps at the distance from herself to the ground, but shoves the fear away. "I was forced to come. Fleur believed all of our troubles would be solved with a romantic date on the roof."

"How thoughtful," he says, tasting the words as if they were something poisonous.

"Besides that, I have some croissants. You really should eat - we can't afford for any of us to be sick, now." A beat, and then, "And you should really come back soon. Maman is worried about you - every time the sky got dark, she'd worry if you'd be caught in a storm."

"It's foolish to worry for me," he grunts, setting his notebook off to the side and breaking their gaze, looking out toward the city. "If I were to die, you both would be free. Perhaps it would be for the best."

Meg's mind reeled, pushing herself closer to him. He inched away, but in her panicked flurry, her fingers sought his arm, as if to keep him anchored to herself. "You can't believe that, Erik. That's a horrible thing to think."

He grunts again, ripping his arm away from her, and this time, Meg doesn't reach back out. Tears fill her eyes again, more out of frustration than anything. He glances toward her, then, his eyes filling with awkwardness - and perhaps fear - at her tears, and she tries to push them away.

"I've made you cry," he says, not as a question, but as a statement. Meg wipes a hand across her cheek, and nearly rolls her eyes.

"Not the first time, you cruel man. You said horrible things to me, and now you say horrible things of yourself. Do you truly care so little about your relationships, or of any connections in this life? Do you truly care so little of yourself?" She asks rapidly, her eyes turning back to his.

"No, no tears for my sake. I will not accept your pity," he admonishes, holding a palm toward her, but she ignores it.

"I can't even tell if I pity you! Half the time, I feel as if I hate you, or that I'm frightened of you," she admits, and he looks away, back toward the city.

"As you should," he murmurs, and she shakes her head wildly.

"No, you stupid man! That's not the point - you can love. You can love so incredibly deeply, let it consume you whole, and yet you can barely look at yourself in the mirror, barely live with yourself. And I know it's not just from your face. How can you live a half-life? And then to the people who do grow to care for you, you take out your anger and loneliness on them." She wanted to stop, but all the emotion she'd kept bottled up from him was inflamed and spewed from her like fire.

His mind reeled, surprised at her admission. She cared for him? She supposed it was her who'd wanted to engage in a friendship, but after his words . . . how could she still want that? And why couldn't she just leave him alone when he wanted to be?

"Leave me be, Meg," he says again, but this time, softer.

"No! I will not! How lonely you've been, even with my mother as a companion. I won't leave you be, but I will, Erik, if you continue to treat me with such cruel intention. I am not some doll that will crack and fall apart at a man's words, but I will not stand for something so destructive in my life. Those words you said earlier, though born from some emotion I don't understand, were not okay." He had grown still, and Meg worried his rigidness was from anger. "We will fight, Erik, but we can't like that. Never like that, again."

Still silence from him, and Meg's gaze tore from him to the city out from them, the sun slowly began to sink down toward the rich pinks and oranges of the horizon. It slowly peaked out, bright and bronzed, and warmth slid across Meg's cheeks and arms.

"So little time you've known me, and yet you . . . you understand me better than most," he whispers, and her gaze turns to his. Mismatched eyes flicked to hers, and unquelled emotion shown behind them. "Tell me, Meg, do you know me better than I know myself?"

"Surely not," she replies, placing her hands on either side of her, the height now beginning to make her dizzy and almost queasy. "I don't think we can ever truly know ourselves, though we might try."

With a shaky hand, she slid her hand closer to his, so the outside of her pinky finger skimmed his. He gasped at the contact, his finger instinctively arching before flattening again, his cold, despite the sun. She smiled gently at him, and guilt roiled through his chest at the redness of her eyes.

"What I said . . . What I said earlier . . . It wasn't true. You must know it isn't true," he says, drawing his hands into his lap as they began to shake.

"It's alright, Erik. I know," she replies, and then stands, the basket of bread in her left hand as she beckons him with her right, holding her palm out to him.

"I'm rather anxious to get back. Are you ready to go?" She questions. He stands, then, and she retracts her palm.

"I suppose," he replies, the notebook appearing smaller in his hand as his palm and fingers nearly engulfed the entire object. Something strange rose in Meg at the sight, but was as fleeting as it was coming.

They slowly made their way down, Meg leading the way, and as they entered the tenement, Madame Giry seemed nearly shocked that he was accompanied by Meg, though the smile of Fleur's face spoke more volumes than anything else in the room.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It was later that night, nearly at midnight, when Meg awoke to a strange sound. Her mother was asleep on the couch above her, and Erik had sprawled out on top of the dining room table, though his height didn't do him much favors there. He now sat in a chair, his head bent forward, and Meg hated the mask harshly then, for it glowed in the darkness something monstrous.

She rose from the floor, annoyed at the intrusion, but then heard a rattle at the doorknob. She quickly fled to the window, carefully moving the blinds away from the side. Her eyes went wide at the sight.

A tall man, obscured with the night and black clothing, tried their door many times, but to no avail. He then suddenly turned toward her, and with a gasp, she snapped it shut. Her mother was still asleep, so she ran over to Erik, shaking his shoulders. He startled awake, and his eyes gazed up at her wildly, a loose curl of black hair obscuring his vision.

"Meg, what the devil-"

"There's someone outside," she whispers, her eyes wide and terrified, and Erik quickly stands, Meg looming close behind. The doorknob eventually stops jiggling, and Erik immediately tears toward the door, flinging it open.

His large frame didn't offer Meg much of a view, but only after moving his arm aside did she see that no one was there.

"Stay here. If you see someone, scream," he orders before tearing off into the dark.

"Erik!" She whispers harshly, following him out the door. She feels pairs of eyes on her almost immediately though, and she moves back inside, closing the door behind her. Her mother had awakened then, in confusion, and Meg told her to rest again, that everything was alright. She wandered over to the chair that Erik had slept in, and waited for him, fear ripping her brain and nerves to pieces. Who was that? Was that the same man - people - that had targeted them on the ship? Was he the man they'd seen in line earlier that day?

After a while, Meg's eyes had begun to droop. Only when she had begun to drift did the door swing back open, and she flinched awake.

"Did you find him?" She whispers, and he shakes his head, and she nearly moans with fear. "What happens next?"

"Go back to sleep, Meg," he says, standing before her, towering several feet over her sitting form.

"Sleep? How? Not after that!" She exclaims quietly, but he shakes his head.

"You can, and you will, Meg. Now go back on off to sleep - whoever that was is gone, and won't come back for the rest of the night," he promises.

She was still disbelieving of him, but took the instruction anyway, standing before moving away, back toward her mother and laying across the floor. She fell asleep, then, quickly after, and he moved his chair closer, then, to the two and the door.

His gaze caught on her features, serene and asleep, and his mind reeled back to the words she'd said today. How astute this little blonde was - though he supposed she'd picked up on many of his mannerisms from their forced time together, as he had with her. Perhaps he, too, was growing to care for the feisty ballerina.

He glanced down at his ring, the black onyx gleaming back up at him in the darkness, and Erik twisted it about his finger. His thoughts were jumbled now, lots of nonsense that he wished he could keep out of his head, but continued to rise and rise in volume until he closed his eyes tightly, squeezing his hands into fists, hard enough for his fingers to draw blood at the bottoms of his palms.

His eyes sought Meg's face again, and then the sleeping form of Madame Giry, and he fought for control.

There he sat until morning, watching the door, until early morning, when exhaustion finally got the better of him, and he drooped forward in drowsiness.

A letter was pushed under the door sometime after that, before anyone had awoke.