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hello my lovely readers! here is the next update :) i hope you enjoy!

just for some excitement: there is a HUGE discovery made
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Fleur and George must have arrived back late last night, Meg wonders, as she awakes under the morning gloom. She rolls over to find Erik laying beside the couch, where she had once rested, asleep and relaxed, his deformed cheek pressed against the pillow.

Despite the heavy weight on her chest, kneeling beside him, a grin played on her mouth.

"Good morning," she murmurs, watching as his eyelashes flutter when her fingers connect with his shoulder. Even though the eyebrow on the deformed side was missing, his eyelashes were long and black, and frankly, Meg was jealous of them.

"Not really," he groans, burying his face deeper into the pillow. "I've never felt such soreness in my life."

"You're so dramatic," she grins, and she's tempted to twine her fingers into his curls, but resists, and trails her hand down to his crook of his elbow.

"As if you have room to judge," he jokes, the edge of his mouth arching up the slightest bit.

This time, without hesitation, as if she couldn't help herself, Meg reaches out and cups his smooth cheek, brushing her thumb against the upturn of his lip. His grin immediately drops, and after realizing she'd touched him, she began to pull away, apologizing frantically, but his hand caught her own, and held it against his cheek. Erik's eyelids fluttered closed, and his lips parted against her thumb. Warm breath blew against the pad of her finger, and despite the heat of it, a shiver wracked her spine, especially when she noticed the onyx was gone.

His fingers were a comfortable weight on her own, as if they were an extension from the tips of her hands and connecting them.

Her heart was beating so quickly that she worried he was able to hear it. And for a moment, she considered leaning and kissing him, but refrained, worry pumping through her as if it were blood.

In a moment, however, she heard the door open in front of them, and he curled away, clutching the ravaged side of his face. Meg quickled looked around, wishing to find his mask, and spotted it at the end of the couch, where her feet had been.

"Here," she whispers, unbending the wires that would cradle his scalp, and he slowly takes it from her with one hand, and then completely turns and quickly places the mask over his face. She watches as his fingers, almost languidly sensual, smooth the wires against his curls. The small droop of his shoulders made her wonder if he felt embarrassed by his obvious crutch, but once he stood, his confident persona returned, though his hair was a wild mess.

"Good morning, Fleur!" Meg greets as Erik extends a hand to the blonde, and eases her up. She kept a tight grip on his hand, and in return, he curled his fingers around hers.

"Good morning, dear," she grins, opening the door wider as George and a gurgling Robin stepped through. "I'm glad you seem to be in good spirits today."

"I guess," she shrugs, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear and leaning closer to Erik. "I don't really want to talk about it, if you don't mind."

"Of course not, dear. I completely understand." Robin was switched into her arms, and she cradled the child close to her heart. "Perhaps you should spend some time outside today. I heard the carnival is in town."

"The carnival?" She questions, excitement flourishing in her heart, and Erik detected this change, and glanced down at her. Her eyes had lit up, wide and blue, and he saw her toes curl in response. Affection was a warm silk that spread across his limbs and thoughts, and it was so unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

"Only for a few days, so you both should hurry. I hear the cotton candy is running low," she winks, and Meg smiles widely, nearly bouncing on her toes.

"We must go!" She exclaims, pulling on Erik's hand.

Though he felt almost sick to his stomach at the thought - so many people, so many memories - he found it nearly impossible to say no. And with a smirk, Erik realized she had him wrapped around her finger, and he didn't care.

"Then we will," he agrees, and she, nearly shaking from excitement, grabs her day clothes and sprints off to the bathroom down the hall, and he could tell she was ignoring the urge to skip.

"You look at her as if you've loved her since your first breath," Fleur says, and he looks away from her, hands clenched and buried into his pockets.

Perhaps I have.

"She . . . She could be the ugliest thing, even uglier than I, and her smile could still bring the world to its knees, and I'd find her beautiful, even still." It was a rare admission, and while it was vulnerable and difficult, it was true. It was the only thing he wanted to shout to the whole world, until everyone knew her name.

"And that, Erik, is why you aren't a monster."

He didn't say anything back, simply kept his eyes closed and fists buried deeply in his pockets until he heard the chaotic sprint of Meg returning.

"Let's go let's go let's go letsgoletsgo!" She grins, and he turns back toward her, feeling an arm wind around his.

"Keep an eye on him. I fear he's a troublemaker, that one," she winks at Meg, humor in her eyes, and the blonde snickers.

"I think it's you who is the troublemaker," he smirks, and she bumps her hip with his - this required rolling up to the balls of her feet - before practically pulling him out the door. He grabbed the jet-black fedora and her forgotten coat before leaving.

"Where do you think it is?" She questions, glancing both ways up the street, as if looking for brightly colored tents or cheery tunes.

"We'll start this way," he decides, cocking his head to their right and unwinding his arms from hers. He places the fedora on his head before holding the coat up for the blonde, and she snakes her arms into it. He holds an arm out for her, but she simply takes his hand instead, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Did you lose your ring?" She asks as they begin to enter a more crowded area, and he seems to shrink, uncomfortable with the large number of people. Meg, however, smiled and waved at nearly everyone they passed.

"No." Just a single word, a simple reply, and he offered no more or no less. And Meg knew not to press.

"Well, I don't have one anymore either, so I suppose we will simply have to make believe," she grins.

"Oh, yes. It is rather scandalous to be seen holding hands with a man you are not married to," he smirks, and she giggles before pulling him over to a grassy patch at a park, where children were playing and laughing loudly.

"Come here!" She grins, falling to her knees besides a ring of flowers, brightly yellow and small. "Aren't they beautiful?"

"They are weeds, Meg. They suck the life from the other more prosperous plants."

"Hush! I think they are beautiful," she murmurs as he kneels beside her, watching as she yanks two of the yellow weeds from the ground, small petals of sunshine bursting from the middle.

She turns and grabs his hand with a smile, and ever so carefully, she knots the stem around his wedding finger, so the flower faces upwards. His hand trembles, and he can barely stop his imagination as it flies, imagining something golden entwining his finger and the girl across from him in white.

"You are not a weed, Erik," she whispers, her eyes raising to his, and the sadness in his own nearly choked her. "Will you put one of me? I've always been horrid and flower rings."

"Well, I must boast that I am quite talented at creating flower rings," he jokes, despite the grief in his eyes, and she giggles as he loops the flower around her own wedding finger, knotting it similarly.

"Oh, if only we had met when we were younger! Surely you could have made me more!" She chuckles, and he helps her to her feet, watching as sunlight streaks across her features.

"I'm quite sure you would have taken advantage. Now, cotton candy?"

"Yes!" She replies, and he intakes breath sharply as the blonde grabs his hand again, pulling him toward the oncoming carnival.

"Barnum and Bailey's," he reads aloud, and he cringes at the sound of circus music erupting around them, high and cheery and completely terrible. But the grip of Meg's hand grounded him.

"Oh! I'm so excited!" She gasps as they enter, and he glances down at her, wishing to capture every ounce of her joy that was so blatant on her expression. She felt so deeply, that he swore he could reach out and touch her emotions.

Erik notices the strange looks people cast their way, and the disproving looks at the flowers tied around their fingers, but she didn't give them a second glance.

Like she didn't care what other people thought.

"Can we get the pink kind?" She asks, and his fingers itch around in his pocket, removing two coins.

"10 cents," the man behind the counter says, and Erik hands the change over, receiving the cone of cotton candy, and handing it to Meg.

Her eyes go bug-eyed as he hands the sweet treat to her, and she thanks the man behind the counter in English before her and Erik step away.

She nearly thought she was going to cry when she ripped off a bite of the pink delicacy and shoved it into her mouth. "This is lovely," she moans, offering it to Erik.

"Meg, it's yours -"

"Nope!" She cuts him off, holding a finger up to his lips. "I don't mind. We can share." She grins up at him as he reaches forward to take a bite, and she watches as his tongue darts forward to catch the leftover sugar in his lips.

"That is divine," he emphasizes, and she giggles, nodding.

"I told you!"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It was a little while later that Erik was to return to Hammerstein's. Meg accompanied him, carrying the cone of cotton candy still, hands still twined together as they made their way to the large building.

"Your hand is dreadfully sticky, mon lutin," he complains, wiggling his fingers around hers, and she grins.

"Now yours is, too!"

"Mmmm, you're right. I can't compose with sticky fingers." And he lifted his fingers to his mouth, sucking on the tips, and Meg's gaze dropped toward his mouth before glancing away, blushing.

Though he lacked true confidence and, really, any self-esteem, it seemed as if everything he did was sensual and smooth. She knew that if he had ever pursued dancing, he would have surely excelled at it. How could a man have literal crippling insecurities, yet be so . . . bold?

"Can I come back with you?" She asks, and the hand that had just been in his mouth lowers to the middle of her back.

"Follow me."

He led her past different shapes of offices, and what she suspected to be the double doors to an auditorium. At last, after what seemed like miles and miles, they came to an office door, to which he opened the door, entering at the same time as her.

It was a small room, but sufficient, nonetheless. It wasn't grand, but a piano stood in the middle of the room, and Meg could tell by the scuff marks on the floor that he had pulled it away from the wall. Music was littered across the piano, and sheets hung against the wall, but other than that, everything was neatly organized.

It was an uncomfortable thing for Meg to be alone. She preferred to be alone when practicing for auditions or rehearsals, but otherwise, much preferred the company of others, even if it was completely silent. She was grateful that he remained by her side since her mother left, but worried constantly whether he was comfortable or not, and whether he would verbalize if he wasn't.

The only other chair in the room was a desk that was shoved into the corner, so she sat upon it, pulling her knees up to her chest and watched as he lowered himself onto the piano bench, a pen already in his left hand.

She laid her head on her crossed elbows as he began to work through his compositions, and Meg fingered his notebook, brushing against the cover and the spine.

His music was exactly as she thought it would be, but somehow better. It was slow and dramatic, and then racing and beating, and then heartbreaking and angry. When Erik's fingers connected with the keys, he seemed to forget everything. Of the world, of her, maybe even his pain. But she heard it so exquisitely spoken in his melodies, that it was impossible to differentiate what he knew and what he wanted.

When he is deep within one of his pieces, she flips the notebook open, squinting as she rifles through the pages, careful not to read any of them until she comes upon a blank page. At the top of that, in a messy, loopy scrawl, she writes 'reasons why you're beautiful. First - you made today special. Second - you breathe melodies like you're music. Third - I know you don't like how messy your hair is, but I think it makes you handsome. Four - you've taught me so many new things.'

She amended to write them as they came, and with a grin, imagined him finding it when he was worn, and feeling comforted by her words. It was always something she wished for - to find little notes from her friends in secret places - so she wanted to give it to him.

She began to ponder her day, pulling her knees up to her chest and leaning against the back of the chair, staring as he tortured the keys with some sort of chromatic ornament beneath a sweeping, whimsical chord. It made her feel like she was in a fairytale, and she imagined being dressed in a large ball gown, the ends barely brushing the floor, and her feet laced with dainty, wonderful shoes. She imagined the sleeves would be long and elegant, and beautiful jewelry and makeup would adorn her body.

And then she envisioned Erik taking her into his arms as his tempo quickly settled into a waltz time. He would smirk at her, as per his normal look, and steal her breath as an arm would snake around her waist, fingers twining with her own. And he would gaze at her as if she were the only woman in the world, and they would dance the night away. And maybe then, at the end, when they were out of breath and laughing, he'd lean down and whisper those words she'd wished to hear from him for so long.

Despite the cotton candy, her stomach rumbled with hunger, and she quickly stood, sliding back into her boots.

"Erik?" She questions, and it startled her how quickly he stopped and turned to gaze at her, hands dropping to his lap. He looked as if he had all the time in the world for whatever she was about to say even though she fully knew he wasn't anywhere close to finishing the new composition.

"I wanted to grab a bite to eat. Would you like anything?" She questions, and he shakes his head no.

"I'm quite fine, but would you deliver these to Hammerstein? His office is across from the kitchen. There's a small box, almost like a mailbox, you can drop these into." He hands three or four pages to her, and Meg ignores the frantic thumping of her heart as their pinkies touch.

"Y-yes, I can," she replies, and he turns back to his music, immediately setting forth to complete the next measure.

She walks out the door, holding the papers close to her chest, and makes her way down the hallway, ignoring how eerie the place appeared at night. She glances back door a moment before moving forward toward the main room, where she knew the kitchen to be.

There, she saw his box in the dimming light, and carefully placed the sheets in there, though not before noticing a strange substance had completely filled the entire thing.

It had a strong, metallic scent, and when she brushed some of the substance on her fingertip and drew it to her nose, she realized it was blood.

She gasps, a choked scream rising from her, and she sees a letter resting just below, dots of blood spilling on the paper.

With a breath, she leans down and opens it.

Dear Boss,
So you say the police have caught me? Well, I say they haven't fixed me just yet! How good of a laugh it gave me when they talk about being RIGHT on track. A Leather Apron? I'm sure! A favorite joke of mine, I suppose. And I suppose you should certainly wish me well for my last job! I didn't even allow the lady enough time to squeal! I love my work and wish to do it again. You will soon hear of me and my funny little games. I saved some of the proper RED stuff but it was thick as glue so I had a heck of a time getting it here. So I suppose I can't write this in blood. But red ink will do HA. HA. I think for my next one, I shall clip the lady's ears off and send it to the police officers for a jolly. My knife is very sharp, so keep straight. I truly do wish you the best of luck.

Yours truly,

Jack the Ripper

P.S. Don't mind the trade name. Also, wasn't good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. They say I'm a doctor now. HA HA

Meg shook wildly as she read through it, the entire thing written in red ink, which she now suspected to be something much more sinister. What bothered her most was the blood from when she touched it staining the back of the letter, but that the ink is so fresh that her thumbs were smearing it.

She was confused, especially with the strange grammar errors, and for certain, why it was written in French.

With a sob, she crumbles the paper into her pocket, and hugs the sheet music close to her as she spirals, backing against a countertop and knocking various dishes to the floor.

There was a shout inside the auditorium, and she fled there, bursting the doors open with intensity, only to scream at the sight she beheld.

A woman was face down, dress pulled up and flowed against her lower back. A large circle of blood appeared at the center of her back. She was blonde, similar in stature to her, and appeared to have been a ballerina.

"She might still be alive!" Meg screeched, tears rolling down her cheeks as she rolled the woman into her back, and sobbed at the sight of dead, cold eyes, distant and glazed.

Blood covered her hands as she pulled the coat from the woman, resting fingertips against the pulse point at her neck. There was no flutter beneath them, and no rising and falling of her chest. What frightened her most was her body was still warm, so she must have just passed.

She was too late.

Meg gently closes the woman's eyelids and crosses her arms in an 'x' over her chest, and stands on shaky legs, backing away with apologies on her lips.

She knew it wasn't her fault, but still, the agonizing thought of if she had just been a few minutes earlier weighs heavily on her mind.

The other woman that had found her was near Meg's age - perhaps a few years older - and knelt on the ground next to the body, sobbing in sheer terror. The blonde kneels next to her, embraces her, but neither can take their eyes off of the horrific sight before them.

"It's okay, it's okay," Meg murmurs in hitched breaths, though she eventually cuts off, sobs shaking her chest as both women embrace each other, completely strangers.

Suddenly, there was a clamor, and a group of people are now standing in the doorway. She recognizes one of them to be Erik, and she lifts her gaze to him, and he meets hers intensely and worriedly, skimming over the blood that stained her fingers and hands and dress and knees and everything, everything was crimson and blood and death, so much death, too much too much too much and Meg could barely breathe, barely breathe -

She darts away, throwing the letter onto the ground and runs, runs as fast as she can, multiple yells of her name erupting behind her, though only one remains as she finally reaches the beach.

"Meg!" He yells as she collapses to her knees at the shore, fiercely rubbing her hands in the water, blood stuck beneath her fingernails.

It really was thicker than glue.

"Marguerite," he says, quieter this time, and she feels him lower himself behind her, and snake his arms down the outside of hers, cradling her hands.

"Let me," he whispers, and the masked man gently rubs away the blood with his own wet fingers before cleaning her palms and elbows. He then motions for her to sit, and still leaning over her, rubs away the scarlet staining her knees.

"Erik," her voice breaks, and her head tilts forward, and his hands cup her shoulders, keeping her from landing into the sea. "Who was she?"

"The lead," he says in a hushed breath, and she buries her face into her hands, gasping irregularly. She could barely cry, barely scream, barely breathe. She couldn't forget the sight of the body, the sight of murder, and her mind reeled back to nearly a year ago, when a man swung above her.

She was in the arms of a murderer, yet she never felt safer.

"I don't want to die!" She cries, and his arms come tightly around her as she trembles.

"You're not going to," he promises fiercely. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"His name is Jack the Ripper," she chokes, and then gags when she remembers the blood filling the mailbox. She knew that if her stomach weren't empty, she surely would have been sick. "He wrote a letter to Hammerstein."

"And him and the police are figuring it out. We rest tonight, and then fight tomorrow, Meg. You need sleep."

"I don't want to sleep!" She sobs, turning in his arms and grabbing onto the collar of his shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "I want to find him, and I want to make him pay!"

His eyes searched hers as she finally began to cry, and her face crumbled as she leaned against him, burying herself into his chest. Erik stiffened at first, but fingers drifted up to her hair and gently combed through it.

"You're freezing," he murmurs, and she only trembles in reply, and he feels a moist warmth against his chest.

"I'm so cold," she whimpers, holding his collar with white knuckles, and Erik locks an arm around her waist and helps her stand.

"You're in shock," he tells her gently, and wraps her in the coat he must have thrown on before coming to her.

"I want to go home," she cries, and an arm wraps around her shoulder as she stumbles. "I want to go back to Paris."

He gulps, and moves in front of her, gently buttoning the coat to conserve as much warmth into her frigid skin.

"Take me back!" She demands, grabbing his hands, her eyes bloodshot and darkly circled. "I want to go back to Christine and Maman and dancing . . . " She felt so childish, and she hated it, hated her childish words, but it's all she could muster. She certainly felt like a child, so small and incapable, stuck in the middle of something that was so much larger than herself.

"I'm sorry," is all he says, and tugs her closer. She completely molds herself to his arm as he leads her away from the beach.

Guilt was heavy and fierce, knowing it was he that had caused Meg to leave her home.

The only noise between them were the gasps of Meg's terror, and not for the first time, he began to worry for her mental state. And with a guilty conscience, he knew that his past crimes certainly hadn't helped.

Once they arrived, he led Meg to the table, and made her drink a cup of chamomile, and only then was she able to finally relax. In the same cup, he pours in a flask of amber-colored liquid, and she glances up at him, pink rimming her eyes.

"What's that?"

"To help you sleep, my dear." And so she lifts it to her mouth, and chokes on the burning liquid, despite it being cold. It stung as it went to her stomach, and she coughed wildly, but all the same, she wanted nothing more than to sleep.

She stands shakily and makes her way to the couch, and when he helps her lay across it, she grasps his hand desperately. "Please don't leave me alone."

"Meg - " he begins to argue, but at the sheer look of horror in her eyes, he relents.

She bends her knees and scoots down so he has a place to sit, and his thigh rests against the crown of her head. She curls under the blanket, and after a brief, silent period of irregular breathing, she seems to drift off.

Erik closes the curtains behind them, cloaking the room in a heavy darkness. He considers moving, but instead leans against the back of the couch, breathing deeply. He prays she doesn't have any nightmares, but from his own experience, he knows she'll be haunted by what she'd seen that day.

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it just be like that sometimes 😃👍💀

ANYWAYS i hope y'all enjoy! please tell me your thoughts!!
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