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blondie and grumpy REALLY be goin through it

hello my lovely readers! here is the next update. i hope you all enjoy!
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She woke to a hand shaking her shoulders, and she tenses, eyes flying open as if she were assessing any danger. Meg was normally a heavy sleeper, but ever since the ship, even the littlest noises would wake her, and fear would pound her heart.

"It's just me, Meg. Go lay next to your mother so she doesn't know we slept side-by-side last night," he whispers, looming above her, and she eases back against the floor, her eyes closing once again.

"M'sleepy," she murmurs, her voice low and tired, and he sighs, still grasping her arms.

"It's only a few feet. Would you rather me drag you?" He threatens, cocking an eyebrow, and she squints at the window, seeing the sky lighten a few shades. How early did Hammerstein require him to be there?

"Preferably," she grumbles, raising her hands to cover her face. "You're one of those people who must wake at the crack of dawn, aren't you? This isn't just a currently-being-stalked and working-a-job situation, is it?"

"And I suspect you could sleep the whole day away if no one stopped you," he chuckles, and she grins at the sound. He then gently clears his throat, his eyes darting, as if embarrassed, and he pulls his hands away from her, though Erik remains kneeling above the blonde. "Your mother is . . . suspicious, shall we put it. I really do think it would be wise to move back, Meg."

"Only since you asked nicely," she replies, sighing as she comes to a sitting position, grabbing her pillow and blanket. She noticed the rosary was returned, and carefully placed in her pocket. And innocently, she asks, "Suspicious of what?"

"I shall return for lunch to bring whatever is being served. Do not cause too much trouble while I'm gone," he says hurriedly, and though even half-asleep she observed he avoided answering, she shrugged it off.

"Don't forget chocolate," she murmurs before laying back down and curling into the blankets. He promises he'll bring them, and with one last glance, he leaves the room.

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"Marguerite, have you noticed anything . . . different in Erik's behavior? Perhaps something that you haven't seen in the past few months?" Her mother questions as they sip tea on the porch, wrapped in blankets and staring out into the city.

Confused, she scrunches her eyebrows and turns toward the Madame. "What do you mean, Maman? Overall, his behavior is very strange," she humorously quips, though the older woman doesn't even smile back, which sends a spike of worry down the blonde's spine.

"I woke to him opening and closing the door this morning. He did so nearly fourteen times before finally leaving," she admits, and Meg cocks her head, setting the cup aside.

"I suppose that is strange . . . I can't think of anything, though. But why does it matter? He seems to have a lot of those quirks anyway," the blonde shrugs. "He's rather a perfectionist, Maman, but I suppose you know him better."

"I wouldn't be so certain of that," she blurts out, though at the blush of embarrassment in Meg's cheeks, reels herself back in. "Have you noticed him . . . checking anything? Like this morning? Perhaps he checks to see if the door is locked an unreasonable amount of times?"

Meg shakes her head again after thinking for a moment longer. "I can't think of anything, Maman. But I'll pay closer attention." She already paid quite close attention to him, especially his hands, and she shrinks into her blanket, fighting down the blush warming her cheeks and chest. "Is he alright?"

The silence from her mother was much too long for the blonde's anxiety, and she hurriedly looks at her mother worriedly. "Maman? Is Erik alright?"

"I'm not sure, my dear. The other evening, he received . . . well, terrible news. I'm worried that he's quietly spiraling. Though he's very dramatic and outspoken with his anger and such, there is much, much more happening within him, Meg, that's very different from how you and me experience those emotions," she explains, and though she was still confused, realization was slowly dawning on her.

"Like Christine," she replies, and the Madame nods.

"Like Christine," she affirms. "Yet I think you may understand how the two may differ from each other."

The blonde nods, wrapping her arms uncomfortably around her abdomen, her thoughts drifting to her two perhaps closest friends. Her thoughts lingered on Erik, however, and she felt like a fool for not recognizing anything bizarre with him, as she was certainly in his presence more often than her mother was. To be fair, however, he was rather sporadic in moods, and though it had been a close few months, it still hadn't nearly been as long compared to Maman's years of observation.

"I have a letter for you as well, Meg. It's from Christine-" and before Meg could even finish, she quickly jumped from her seat, eyes widening.

"May I see it?" She blurts, and her mother removes the envelope from her pocket, slightly rumpled. The blonde tears it open, fingers scrambling for purchase against the paper - her paper, her words - and consumed the words written for her.

My dearest Meg,

How much time it has been! It's only been a few months, yet I feel as if we've been apart for years. Please forgive me that I haven't written sooner - much has happened during this time, and I fear it has all gotten rather away from me. I went to see you, however, nearly a month after the incident, and I couldn't seem to find you or your mother. I asked about, and they told me you had left in a rush for America - are you quite alright, my friend? I've never quite known your mother to be as spontaneous as that.

But, enough of my questions! How are you faring? Have you found any love? Any friends? How is America? I've never been, but I once had a friend who had traveled nearly the entire country, and told me many stories of it! Though I do not remember him kindly, I hope I am able to tell you of all of his travels someday! I truly hope you are able to have those wonderful experiences, and allow me to live through them! And how is your mother? Is she faring too as well? I worry much for that woman. She's more uptight than a pinched violin string!

I have much more to ask you of, so I hope you will write me back! However, I wanted to inform you that Raoul and I were married a few weeks after the incident! I wanted to invite you in person, but I couldn't seem to find you anywhere. I was able to locate Madame Giry after she sent a letter my way, though I find it rather strange that it came from an opera house. Have you found work?

I hope to hear from you soon, Meg Giry! And to see you in the flesh even sooner!

Your loving friend, Christine

"Oh, Christine . . . Christine . . ." Meg murmurs, holding the letter tightly against her chest, fighting off the onslaught of tears that threatened to fall. "How I miss you, Christine."

"Perhaps someday, you both shall cross paths again," her mother assures, placing a hand on her arm. "And I apologize for worrying you about Erik. I worry for him, perhaps more than I should. But I'm sure he would be quite annoyed if he had two mother hens worrying over him," she grins, and Meg giggles, sipping from her tea. "But you promise to tell me if you notice anything, my dear?"

"I promise, Maman." She replies. Meg desperately wanted to ask Erik if he was alright, and that he could always lean on her if he was in some sort of pain, but knew he wouldn't. Her heart wrenched in her chest at the realization that if he was struggling with dark thoughts, he would battle them himself, alone.

"Meg, I also wanted to speak to you about Erik. I know you two have become closer, but -"

"How dare you!" A silken, deep voice shouts from the bottom of the stairs, and the blonde jumps up, leaning over to find the familiar sight of the masked man, though his cheeks were blooming red and his face was contorted in anger, so harshly that Meg could tell from her high place above him.

"Erik, what do you -" she begins, but he cuts her off, marching up the stairs, holding a letter with a newspaper clipping attached to it. The blonde moves to the side as he cuts through, marching straight up to her mother.

"What is the meaning of this?" He cries out, glaring down at her, and the dancer darts forward, placing a hand on his chest and pushing him back.

"Don't talk to my mother like that, Erik!" She chastises, and though he follows her hand, the anger doesn't leave his expression. She gives him a questioning look, but nearly backs away as he sneers, his lips curling back menacingly.

"What's wrong?" She murmurs, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he thrusts the papers toward her. As her fingers wrap around them, she glances up to find the startling appearance of tears in her mother's eyes.

"Meg, forgive me," she whispers, and now quickly, she unfurls the paper from Erik's shaking hands, and finds a letter and a newspaper clipping attached to each other. On it, read Parisian merchant returns from sea, and without a doubt, she knew it to be her father. And as she skimmed the article, her eyes widened in fear and her fingers began to tremble.

"He's sick, Meg. They aren't sure how much longer he's going to last," she explains, and tears prick the blonde's eyes. "I don't want him to go alone, Meg. And perhaps he will make it - but I can't leave him there alone."

"Let me go with you," she begs, lowering the paper down. "I want to see Papa too, Maman. Especially if he's . . . " tears begin to stream down her cheeks, and Erik moves ever closer until he was by her side, and she was comforted by his presence.

"Meg, my little Meg," she murmurs, and she leans forward to embrace the girl, but the blonde backs away, and the masked man grabs the papers from her as she begins to rip them, his gaze still strong and hard.

"You aren't letting me go, are you!" She cries out, and her back hits the ledge. Quieter, now, "Papa . . . " she murmurs, wrapping her arms around her abdomen. A gust of wind lifted the hair from the back of her neck, and Erik thought it looked rather like a halo, like a fallen angel.

She understood some of the reasoning behind this act. It wasn't effective for all three of them to travel back to Paris and then return, and certainly not Erik. It also was also a rash idea for only herself and her mother to go, because of the target on their backs. Or specifically, it seems, Meg's. Despite that fact, it still made her uneasy to imagine her mother going alone, and it was absolutely crushing to her to imagine her father dying and being unable to say goodbye.

And with a gasp, the full effect of her father dying finally crashed onto her shoulders.

She pulls away from the group, suddenly unable to breathe, and quickly hurries the stairs, nearly tripping over her dress in her sprint. Erik came up behind her, ready to follow her up, but the mother came forward and touched his arm.

"Let her go, Erik," she murmurs, wiping the tears from her eyes. "She has every right to be upset."

"You can't leave her, Antoinette!" He shouts, bunching his hands together and tossing the papers on Meg's chair. "You forget that I watched her grow, too. She hasn't been without you for barely over a day!"

"Do not tell me how to parent my own child, boy! I came back for you, when you ran to Italy, so don't you dare persecute me for not caring for you both!" She exclaims back, and he sniffs angrily, fists buried in his pockets.

"I'm not talking about me, Madame! I'm talking about Meg!" He exclaims, and she softens, features slacking.

"I believe you are, my boy," she murmurs, and he turns away as her hand touches his shoulder, flinching. "I'm so sorry, Erik. But you must understand - my husband is half way across the world, and he's ill." Her voice cracks on the last world.

His eyes fill with tears, and suddenly he was a scared little boy, small and hurt and frightened. His shoulders caved forward, and her fingers circled his back, like she had done with Meg.

"You feel as if I am abandoning you," she whispers, understanding, and he turns on her, eyes flaring and cheeks wet.

"You are abandoning me!" His voice was tight as he emphasized the 'are', and the woman frowns. Around them, thunder began to rumble in the distance, and the clouds above them darkened until it hung above them.

"Come inside, my boy," she beckons, blinking her own tears away and sunken heart. But he shakes his head, removing himself from her grip.

"I'm getting Meg," he states, and that familiar panic runs through her, seizing her heat tightly.

"Erik, I haven't any idea the nature of your relationship or . . . Feelings . . . For her," she begins, and he whips around, frustration in his gaze, but perhaps also a hint of panic.

"I have none!" He grunts out.

"I forbid you from courting her, Erik," she instructs, the strictness of her teaching coming through her voice. "Though I really do believe you to be a good man, I expect you to understand why my daughter is off limits."

"Whatever you say, Madame," he grits out, though it was difficult to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest, as if his heart were being split in two.

It was a lie, he knew, to think Meg didn't already possess both halves.

He sprints up the stairs to find the blonde perched where he normally sat, shivering in the fresh cold and ignoring the droplets of rain as they began to fall.

"Meg," he announces himself, and shucks off his overcoat. Bending down behind her, he places it around her shoulders, and she settles into its warmth.

"I'm not going back down," she says firmly, and he plants his palms on her shoulders gently, and forces his own feelings down. The blonde had done that with him, when he had been upset, so he would do the same for her.

"You must, Meg. It is going to rain," he explains, and she shrugs beneath him. Her right hand reaches across her chest to lay atop his left one, and her fingers tremble with an unspoken grief.

"Okay," she whispers, giving in, and the both stand together. She grabs for his hand, and he lets her, and her grip is unnaturally tight as rain begins to pour down upon them. He pretends to ignore the tears running down her face, a more solemn shade as compared to the trickles of rain. They were in no hurry, though the sheer cold began to seep into Meg's skin and lungs. And as they arrived at the door, he pulled away from her, twisting the handle.

"Don't go back to Hammerstein today," she says, reaching out to grab the inside of his elbow, and he stops, looking at her in a forlorn sense, and some sort of dread fills her, his sadness tangible and deeper than she expected.

"I shall stay, then."

They both walk in together to find Fleur aiding the Madame in packing her bag, and regret and shame was plain on the mother's face. The blonde's arms wrap around herself as the Madame quickly stands, and inhales abruptly.

"Ma choupette," she says, eyes sad and low, and she opens her arms toward the blonde. Without another word, she drops Erik's soaked coat and runs toward her mother, burying herself into the familiar, warm embrace.

"Promise me," the blonde begs. "Promise me, that you'll do everything you can to keep Papa alive."

"I swear with my life, little one," she vows, and they hold each other tightly before the blonde pulls away, stifling down her anger and frustration.

"This is yours," she murmurs, sliding the ring off of her fingers and giving it to her mother. "Since Papa is back, you should wear it."

Erik stays deathly quiet and still as Meg helps her mother finish packing, and when it was time for her departure, tears began to glisten in the blonde's eyes once more.

"I love you. So much, my dear," she murmurs to Meg, holding her tightly, allowing her daughter to be the one to pull away first, when she was ready.

She only did after a handful of minutes. She'd wanted to accompany her mother to the ship, but she'd refused it.

"Goodbye, Maman," she says, and with a final goodbye and a gentle hand to the vexed man, she left.

And Meg's heart broke.

She didn't cry as she thought she would, though she certainly felt like it. It felt as if her father already was gone, and she desperately wanted the presence of her mother back.

"Don't be angry with mother," she says, voice weary and tired. "This is the right thing."

"It certainly doesn't feel like it," he grunts, and she draws closer to him, standing in front of the masked man.

"I know," she whispers, agreeing silently. "But I won't leave you. We're friends. And Maman didn't leave you, Erik. Not really."

She saw a flash of tears in his vision before slamming them closed, and she slowly moved behind him, molding herself to his back. Meg presses her face between his shoulder blades, and wraps her arms around his front.

"Friends," he repeats, as if the word still felt foreign to him. He melted into her arms, though she was significantly shorter, and his own limbs went limp by his side, outside of her embrace.

It was easier for him to accept comfort like this, Meg had realized long ago. He didn't like looking at the source of whoever he received it from, unless it was Madame Giry, and wasn't very comfortable with giving it.

She held him tighter at the thought of her father, fingers bunching into the material of his clothing, so close to him now that she could barely breathe. The blonde wished his arms were around her - someone's, anyone's - but it was enough, to simply know she was easing his own pain.

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They had stood like that for quite some time, Meg's embrace a comfort to them both. She eventually pulled away, shivering from her wet clothes now dry, but still very much cold. She hands the over-jacket back to him, and he gratefully takes it, snaking his arms through the sleeves as she wipes her cheeks with a damp towel, sticky with tears.

It was a solemn silence between them, one filled with loneliness, and they never strayed a few feet from each other. Meg, craving human interaction and closeness, and Erik, craving simply the presence of her.

They eventually went in search of food - mainly for Meg - and when they came up dry, he offered his own lunch from that day, which they split on the floor, in the same place where they'd slept side-by-side before.

"What are you thinking about?" He questions quietly, the first to break the silence, and the girl seemed startled before returning to buttering her bread once more.

"How crazy having a nose is," she says, touching a fingertip to her own.

"Of course you are," he grins, and a swell of joy erupts in her chest at the sight. It was an elated feeling, she got, when she was the source behind his happiness. "It's to help you sing better, my dear."

"What do you mean?" She asks, scooting forward to be closer to him. "Why does it improve singing?"

"When your vocal folds move together to create noise," he begins, placing a finger where her voice box resided. With a breath, his fingernail barely scratched her neck, and she fought to keep her eyes neutral. How strange, his touch came.

"It travels up," he explains, motioning it with drawing his fingernail up her throat, brushing her jaw and cheek, "and those sound particles vibrate in your face and nose. That's why it's almost easier to envision singing from the center of your forehead."

"Is that why there's a buzzing behind my face whenever I sing?" She questions, and he nods.

"That's exactly right, my dear," he praises, and she grins, appreciating his affirmation. "Though you and your fairy nose have much theory and technique to learn."

"I am not an elf!" She laughs, and she feels her mood instantly lift with the distraction.

"Then perhaps you are a goblin, living deep beneath the ground, always cold and always lonely," he says, though he sighs after, dropping his bread to the plate. "Maybe I better fit the goblin, mon lutin."

"Well, if you did, I would come live below with you!" She tries, stealing the last remaining bread from off of his plate and shoving the whole chunk in her mouth.

"And what if you got sick of it, living beneath the ground? Would my company surely be enough?"

"Oh, I suppose we could visit mother on the weekends and attend Sunday mass. And perhaps in the evenings, when it is darker above than below, we could walk through the cities and watch the stars," she describes, and he grins at the idea, though his heart sunk, wondering if she would always view him as a friend. Love was not something to be forced. The Sultana could not force him into love, as he'd learned in Persia, and Christine could not be forced to love him.

"I suppose," he agrees, attempting to remain neutral, but it was difficult with that dazzling smile of hers. How he'd never noticed it before, at the opera house, was a mystery to him.

"And besides," she murmurs, gathering their plates and cloth napkins, "I much prefer you above ground, even if you dress primarily in black, insult my choice in lotion and sunburn so horribly."

"Careful, Meg Giry," he warns playfully, standing with her. "Or I shall slowly darken your wardrobe and implement my own personal tastes in fragrances."

And with that, the reminder that the only black piece of clothing she owned was a funeral gown, which she had left in Paris.

Meg gulps, telling herself loudly in her mind that her father wasn't gone yet, and that he still had a chance. And perhaps with her mother there, he would pull through.

He seemed to notice the shift in her mood and slowly peeled the items from her hands, bringing them to the kitchen and placing them on the small dining table. The blonde perched herself on the couch, sinking into its weight, and wishing it was her mother on the mattress instead of her.

Rain fell steadily outside as Erik busied himself in the tenement, and Meg closed her eyes against a sudden onslaught of tears, wanting comfort, but grateful to not be asked of her sadness again.

The blonde dozed up to the calming trickle against the window, and Erik pulled the soft, pink blanket over her body, brushing her hair back with his palm as he had normally done when she was sick, and standing above her, a sudden painful twisting and clenching in his chest.

Christine.

He darts out the door, into the freezing rain, and blindly climbs the stairs, uncaring that he would certainly catch a cold by tomorrow. He stood out, on the ledge, and as if he were reliving it all, everything came back to him. His evening lessons with Christine, her tangible grief from years back, her compassion, her desperation, her beauty, her kind soul. And the blasted vicomte, and he hated how angry the thought of him still roiled deep in his stomach.

It felt so long ago, yet the pain was still a fresh, sharp knife. He yelled out, growling and raging, livid and hurt and so, so tired . . . he was so tired of all of this, that the past couldn't stay where he had left it.

But wasn't that what he was always doing, what he always had done? Hop from place to place, seeking freedom and liberation, always looking for a new start and a second chance. But now, he was certain, this would be the end of the Phantom. There would be no more opera ghost, no more of any of it. He wanted peace, so badly, so badly it hurt more than his buried past, and he knew he could find it. He wished, more than anything, that he could find it.

And with a choked scream, he yanked the black onyx from his finger, and without a second thought, threw it as far as he could way from himself. Away went the pain, the anger. Away went his painful history in Persia, where he'd been given the ring. And away went his all-consuming love for Christine, over the edge.

His last kill would be the past.

He toppled to his knees in a heap, heavy, deep sobs escaping him, and he buried his face into his hands, heaving and gasping. It was excruciating, to cut ties with everything he had been victim to for so long, but he was tired.

"Marguerite . . . Marguerite . . . Marguerite . . ." He whispered her name like a promise, and it comforted him, just to say it, just to know he wasn't alone. Erik knew, without a doubt, that even though she was wrought with devastation and exhaustion, if she knew he was up here, the blonde would hold him, even in the blinding cold.

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I KNOW THIS WAS A SERIOUS CHAPTER and there will be some harder chapters coming soon, so i have some fluff promised for the next update (WHICH I AM VERY VERY VERY EXCITED FOR HDJKSHJKHHKJHJK).

i love you all! thank you so much for reading :). if you enjoyed, don't hesitate to comment or leave kudos! i love reading through your reactions :). see you all soon!
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