The nightmares came back.

Meg awoke in a cold sweat, gasping and crying as Erik shushed her gently, cold fingers brushing hair away from her wet cheeks to settle over his thigh.

"Was it the clock again? With your father?" He whispers, and she nods, turning her face into the couch cushions.

"What time is it?" She questions, and he leans over the top of the couch to allow a small stream of moonlight into the room to illuminate his watch.

"It's around four in the morning," he replies, pulling the blanket back over her shoulders. "Go back to sleep, Meg, even if it's just being still. You're surely exhausted, and I'm rather certain you'll be brought into questioning tomorrow."

"Tell me a story," she murmurs, lifting her head to place it on his thigh. "Is this alright?"

He nearly chokes on his words, though he laces his hands together to keep them from shaking, even though she probably couldn't even see them. "What would you like to hear?"

Erik hears her sniff, and watches as she swipes at the moisture that had collected under her eyes and cheeks. His heart pulled and wished to comfort her, though his hands would not stop trembling.

"The Thousand and One Nights," she states. "Do you know that one?"

And indeed, he did.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He had been fifteen and sick with influenza, and the little blonde spitfire had been sitting on the floor, against her mother's leg.

Madame Giry had placed a cold compress on his forehead as he shivered under the blankets, sweating profusely. She was worried - that much was evident - and he didn't miss the rosary that was clutched tightly in her hand, which she had eventually handed to the small blonde.

"How about a story, Erik? You certainly love those."

"Oui, Maman! A story!" Meg exclaims, clapping her hands together excitedly. The mother circled her neck with the rosary and lifted the squealing blonde into her arms, depositing her onto the side of the bed. She herself pulled a chair up beside the mattress, and the raven-haired boy struggled to open his eyes.

"Rest, Erik. I will certainly take no offense if you fall asleep - that is rather the point," she grins, and Erik returns the physical sentiment.

"Oh, Maman, will you read Aladdin's Wonderful Lamp? That one surely is my favorite!" She exclaims, and her mother relents.

It had been the first time Erik had felt part of a family.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"Can you do —"

"Aladdin's Wonderful Lamp," he finishes, and she glances up at him questioningly, rolling onto her back.

"Yes. That's exactly what I was going to say," she whispers, and he wanted to trace the stars in her eyes.

"It's my favorite, too," he murmurs, "though it has a rather bittersweet ending."

"Then perhaps you should tell The Tale of the Hunchback. The one where they bring him back to life at the end," Meg replies. "I like the stories with happy endings better."

After a moment, he collects himself, breathing evenly now. "Then close your eyes, petit lutin." Her eyes flutter closed as she turns on her side, facing him, and falls under the spell of his silken baritone.

"Many moons ago, in a place called Basrah, there was once a tailor and his wife, who stumbled upon a pleasing hunchback."

And after he was finished with the tale, Meg had fallen asleep, and he felt warm, bare breath stir the loose clothing on his legs.

He'd already gotten a few hours of sleep, and didn't require much more than that. So instead, he kept watch over the blonde, glancing out the window periodically and checking on her movements, to frighten away all intruding nightmares.

It wasn't long after that that she awoke for the last and final time that morning, and he could tell her head ached with pain and exhaustion. But she didn't mutter a word, and instead turned away from the light, burying her face into the place above his knee.

It was difficult to think about what she may need, in terms of emotionally. He looked her over with a clinical eye, and made several deductions of her physical state, but knew nothing of the emotions she was experiencing. Throughout his life, Erik had faced misery, and though he was no stranger to death, the murder of the young woman still shook him, and the quiet blonde on his lap frightened him. But how was he to comfort her? Meg seemed to take what she needed, when she needed it, unafraid to ask. Should he be the same way?

"You should eat, Meg. You barely ate anything yesterday . . . I promise you'll feel better if you eat," he murmurs, and Erik feels her snort.

"Says the man who has definitely gone days without eating," Meg replies, and she could practically hear his eyes rolling in his head.

"Unlike you, my dear, I don't break my body doing ballet," he says, and now it was her turn to roll her eyes. Though her head hurt something awful, she rolled onto her back, looking up at him.

From here, she could see some of his deformity. Meg could see the rough patch of scars on the hidden corner of his lips, and the bloated lower one that was dark within the mask's shadow. She saw angry red lines on his jaw, and tiny scars that seemed to litter his neck. And near the base of it, where his dark curls were beginning to reach, there was a thin line wrapped around, the scar so light she could barely see it.

"What's that?" She questions, sitting up now and twisting so she can gently brush her fingers against the strange ring encircling his neck. Erik flinched when she made contact, but her eyes caught his, and she saw panic in them, almost like the mere touch there brought back horrific memories.

"That, Meg," he breathes, "is from the man who taught me how to kill."

"But . . ." She stammers, eyes widening. "Why would he?"

"You misunderstand me," he states, almost monotonously, as if he'd removed himself entirely from his words. "I was never taught in the sense of what you are thinking. I learned from having it done to me."

"Oh . . . oh, Erik," she murmurs, reaching up to cup his bare cheek, but he shruged away from her touch, not accepting it.

"Do not pity me for my past, Meg, for I have more than made up for the sins done against me with my own. And I haven't any regrets, for I would not have survived Persia if not for this," he grumbles, finger jutting up toward the scar. "Now come," he beckons, standing and holding a hand out to her. "Hammerstein wanted to meet for breakfast to discuss payment, and I won't leave you here by yourself."

"I don't really want to do anything, Erik," Meg murmurs, drawing her knees up to her chest. "I don't feel like moving today, really." Her face was downcast, and he softened, fists clenching before releasing.

"I'll be back in a few hours," he agrees, and Meg lays back down across the couch, the place where he had just been sitting warming the side of her head. "Promise me you'll eat something."

She nods, pulling the blanket over her shoulders and closing her eyes. Erik, heart now tugging with compassion for the blonde, picked up Meg's rosary that was laying next to her bag and leaned over her, placing the object by her chest. He then remembered all those times when he desperately wanted someone there, wanted someone to sit with him, to hold his hand as he cried.

But most of all, all those times when he curled into a corner, pretending the walls were arms holding him.

It broke his heart to envision Meg doing the same.

"Meg . . . Meg, if you don't want to be alone, I can send him word to find me tomorrow -" He begins, but she waves him off, grasping the rosary.

"I'll be okay. I just want to go back to sleep," she replies, and he nods, feeling awkward just standing above her.

"If . . . if you do feel up to it, we need more bread and apples from the market," he says, placing a small pouch of money atop the table.

"Okay," she whispers, curling further into the blanket, and he looks at her helplessly.

"If the police come, or if anyone gives you any trouble, come and find me," he instructs, and she nods numbly, closing her eyes.

Worry filled him at the thought of leaving Meg there alone. Fleur, George and Robin tended to disappear for most of the day now, leaving the two alone in the tenement. However, the blonde thrived off of social interaction, and even just having another person sharing her space with her, and he wondered if she would be alright, being alone for the next few hours.

It made sense, he thought, given she rarely had any time spent alone. He had watched her when the girl was very young, but as she grew, his attentions switched, and eventually landed on a lofty brunette. But even still, he watched over them both, over all of his chorus performers.

Erik knew that, on occasion, Meg would separate from the group and sit in the chapel. He never thought much of it, never having been interested in her much beyond her otherworldly passion, but now he regretted not having met her sooner.

The blonde would usually do no more than run there during odd hours of the evening, and sit against the large cross near the front of the room. Sometimes, she would pray, wide, toothy grins painting her mouth, and others, shaking from sobs and clutching her rosary tightly in her fingers. She'd dance around the small, holy room, invisible strings and keys echoing in her head, and others, she'd read her novels next to candlelight.

He remembered, then, when she must have been twelve or thirteen, and another ballet girl had said something nasty to her, she'd locked herself in the chapel, and had forgotten her novels. The blonde had fallen asleep nearly an eternity later, and taking pity, Erik had found one of his own and laid it next to her.

He saw this same novel poking out of her bag, entitled "Les Miserables".

An idea wove in his head, spinning to completion, and he grabbed the coin bag, drawing a few from the silken thing and placing it back down.

She was unmoving as he left, though still awake. The moment Meg heard the door close, she hopped from the cushions, wincing as she put weight on her ankles, which felt sore and swollen. The dancer stepped toward Erik's bag, and removed his robe, still smelling so much like him, and slipping the blue thing over her shoulders, tying the sash.

Usually, when seeking comfort, she'd talk with her mother, or find an empty, alone space to dance. She'd also learned how to become lost between pages, to become sucked so far into words and sentences until she was gone.

But she felt too tired to dance, too worn and too spent. And the last thing she surely wanted to do was dive into a tale that was anywhere near similar to hers.

Her stomach grumbled as she sat before the small dining table, laying her head against the cool wood. She'd seen the dead before, had been to many funerals in the past handful of years, though none such as bad last night, when she'd seen the mutilated woman. And everytime she remembered - as if she could forget - she felt as if she would vomit.

She buried her nose into the too-long sleeve of the robe, and silently willed the unsettling, bothered feeling in her abdomen to lessen. It almost felt like anxiety - an overwhelming amount - and she felt empty, so empty that she wondered how she'd ever learn to see beyond everyone she'd seen in the past few months.

There was a knock on the door, then, and she gathered the robe tighter around her, head lifting quickly. She was hesitant as she stalked over to the door, looking at the tall, manly, almost familiar shadow. There was another series of sharp raps on the door, louder and more intense this time, and they both frightened and angered the blonde.

As she came to the door, she slowly swung it open, only to reveal a tall, burly-looking man, in a way that Meg can only describe as huge. He towered well over her, his chest larger than the width of her body, and his hands were beings in themselves as they hung by his sides.

"Y-yes?" She stutters, barely able to meet his gaze as he stared down at her. "I speak very little English -"

"Your dues, madame. You're late," he replies gruffly, and Meg's eyes widen as she finds the bag of coins with her eyes, and hurries over.

"H-how much?" She stammers, opening the bag with trembling hands.

"Fifty cents," he replies, and her eyes widen largely as she digs through the small bag.

"We . . . We don't have that much . . . Only about twenty cents . . . But my husband will be paid soon. We can get you the money then!" She tries, fear in her eyes. What would happen if they didn't have the money?

And where were Fleur and George?

"There are, certainly, other ways to pay me, I should think," he grins, reaching out to touch her shoulder, and she backs away, snarling.

"I am a married woman, and even if I weren't, I would adamantly refuse even still!" The blonde grits out, angry.

"Perhaps we could work out an agreement," he presents, touching her waist this time, and Meg shoves him roughly away, baring her teeth as he grappled for her wrists.

As Meg cried out, there was a commotion behind them, and the man was knocked over, hit harshly with the heel of a boot to the temple. He stumbled, only to reveal Fleck, who looked livid.

"Oh," Meg gasped as the redhead caught the stumbling blonde into her arms, the dancer's already tired muscles collapsing underneath her.

"Oh, Meg, are you alright?" She questions, holding the blonde tightly. "I hadn't a clue he'd be here . . . Trust me, if I did, I would have clocked him over the head long before this!"

"You . . . you know who this is?" Meg gasps, pushing Fleck away and staring at her with confusion, fists clenched. "Is this not the owner?"

"Meg, no, he is," she reassures. "He's one of my . . . Clients, and he must have seen me come here once or twice."

The blonde nods, though she crosses her arms and shivers into her robe. "I don't want this man here . . . Can we call the police? I should find my husband as well, and hunt down wherever our housemates are at."

"Or, you should sit down," she tells her, leading the blonde outside, away from the burly male, and setting her on one of the chairs. "Breathe for a moment, Meg. You look exhausted."

"Will you go get the police, Fleck? I'll just wait here," she says, locking the door from the outside with a key. "I don't think I could even walk that far."

"Alright, blondie. Sit tight," Fleck agrees, taking off in a dead sprint down the stairs, and off towards wherever the station was.

Though she wanted Erik's protective presence, she didn't want him to keep her on a leash. She was being targeted, but regardless, she was her own person and wanted freedom.

Meg decided she wouldn't tell him about this new development unless it came to it. She didn't care if he punched the man so hard he landed into next Tuesday, but she did care if he would be too anxious to leave her by herself.

Although, she could have done with his arms wrapped around her that moment.

It was then that she noticed something under one of the bricks littering the front of the floor of the tenement.

Gasping in air, so quickly that she nearly chokes, Meg kneels down next to it, and carefully removing the brick, pulls two small photographs from beneath it.

There, she saw a picture of her father, torn away from a larger one, and what seemed to be an unknowing one of Erik, only the back of him, but she recognized his features, the sharpness of his jaw and small carving of the mask on the side. She recognized his hands, both which were curled into fists, and perhaps four or five rings gleaming on his fingers.

And they were both circled in red ink, x's marked over eyes, or the back of the head.

In Meg's hands, she held the two men that mattered most to her in her life.

And after a moment of fear and nearly whimpering, anger swirled through her, and she gazed at the red crossing the pictures again before turning back and kicking open the door, to find the man waking and rubbing his now sore head.

Meg thought it was blood dripping from his pocket and fingers, but there was none dotting his temple, and it seemed more liquid than thick.

It was ink.

And all Meg saw was red.

"You put these there, didn't you!" She screeches, throwing the pictures on the ground and clenching her fists.

The man didn't quite seem all there, but she saw the instant recognition in his face when he spotted the pictures, and a surge of protective energy flooded her.

No one would hurt them.

"Who are you? Are you him? Are you Jack?" When she'd seen Jack in silhouette, he seemed taller and lankier, but perhaps the darkness cloaked his form well.

"Rick," is all he replies with, and then two officers and Fleck were in the doorway, and the red-head was running up to her, wrapping her arms around the blonde tightly.

"The police contacted Hammerstein's secretary and will be alerting your husband. He'll be home soon, Meg," she says, and the blonde nearly withers, her fingers reaching up to pinch either side of the bridge of her nose.

"This is too much," Meg groans, now more irritated than frightened. And why should she be frightened? She literally had a skilled murderer as her fake husband.

Oh, how strange that sentence felt. She nearly cracked a grin from how absurd it sounded.

"Why don't you go sit down, Meg. I'll wait for you outside until Erik arrives," she suggested, and the blonde nods, the girls trailing through the door, ignoring whatever was happening inside.

Erik and Hammerstein were upon them faster than Meg could have imagined. All she could pay attention too, however, was the masked one, who had a head of sweat dripping down the bare side of his face, hair wild and clothes ruffled. He was out of breath, almost as if he'd sprinted the way here.

"I leave you alone . . . For ten minutes . . . " he pants, and he tugs Meg into his arms, and she leans against him heavily, arms still limp. He pushes her away, then, hands against her shoulders as his eyes survey her body.

"Are you hurt?" He questions, and she shakes her head 'no'. He breathes a shaky sigh of relief and wipes sweat away with his shirt sleeve. He enfolds her in his arms again, and for a moment, Meg enjoys how affectionate he was being with her, which was rare indeed.

But the problem inside needed their attention.

She slips her hands underneath his jacket, Fleck speaking to the officer, distracted and turned away. Meg presses her pointer finger against his lower back, and she feels a shutter echo through his spine at the pressure. But when she draws an 'R' and an 'I', he seems to recognize she's giving him a message.

'C', she loops, and then 'K', and Erik pulls away, tilting his head toward the tenement in a gesture, and she nods. But as his gaze lifts to the door behind her, it suddenly swings open, Rick handcuffed, with the two policemen escorting him out.

Erik leads Meg to the side, but not before the burly man suddenly wrenches out of their grip, and delivers a swift kick to the unexpecting masked man's abdomen, sending him back a few steps, gasping as the air is knocked out of him. He spit in Erik's direction, and Meg's vision nearly blacked from how quickly she had a murderous urge.

"You men!" Meg shrieks, darting forward and punching him straight in the jaw with so much ferocity and anger that yellowed teeth and crimson fling out of his mouth, straight over the edge. He growls, bunching his fists behind him and prepares to kick the girl in her throat, but she lashes out again, kneeing him in the groin.

"Don't touch him!" She growls, standing over the fallen man. "Don't ever touch him again!"

Meg shook wildly, unbelieving that she had done that, and from the memory of his hands on her. But none was so passionate as his treatment of Erik. Oh, she could have punched him a million more times!

Hammerstein's jaw was nearly against the floor as the police dragged the man up and led him down the stairs while Fleck grinned wildly, seemingly almost proud of Meg. And when she turned to make sure Erik was alright, he was staring up at her, awe and heartbreak written across his face.

Had . . . Had she defended him?

No one had ever done such a thing for him before.

In that moment, Erik felt like crying and laughing, and his heart squeezed with something so lovely it was a wonder he didn't jump up and kiss her then.

He attempted to move, but a sharp pain near the bottom of his rib cage stopped him, where the kick had been placed, and he winces aloud, and all three of the remaining people look at him suddenly.

"Erik?" Meg questions, moving closer, wiping the dots of blood away from the cracked knuckle atop atop her pointer finger. The blonde kneels down beside him, touching his upper arm gently, and stares at him worriedly.

"I think I may have fractured a rib," he gasps, and Meg's eyes widen.

"Won't that . . . Won't that poke something inside of you?" She questions, fear in her eyes, fingers tightening against his arm.

"The hope is that it won't," is all he replies with.

"We'll . . . We'll go to the doctor," she amends, looking back at Fleck and Hammerstein. "Will you help me get him there? Or . . . O-or perhaps it's better if the doctor comes here. I don't think you can walk very well." And from the harsh, unsteady breathing coming from the masked man, she could discern that he was in considerable pain.

"No doctors," Erik grunts, and he sends a panicked look toward Meg, and she all at once understands he's worried of being caught. And with another leap in logic, she realized he'd be killed for his crimes.

She would be for hiding him, too.

"We can't afford it," he adds on, and this, she knew, was true. They barely had enough for rent, and their resources for simple market items were running low. And though it was fine for now, they hadn't the funds for new clothes or shoes, either.

"I'll pay for a doctor," Fleck says, curling her wrists anxiously. "And I'm sure this lovely man would aid in helping you there." She winks at Hammerstein, then, and Meg felt a giggle bubble up in her at the blush on his face.

He shakes his head again, but winces, and Meg cups his bare cheek, and he immediately turns to her, something akin to shock in his eyes. It was like before, when she was about to say something, and suddenly in Erik's world, all that was important was her.

"What were their names? Natalie?" She questions. "We can go to them, Erik. The ones that helped me when I was poisoned."

After a moment, he nods his agreement, and Meg waves Hammerstein over. Together, they lift Erik from beneath his shoulders, and the masked man hisses in pain, almost sobs. She reaches up to clutch the hand that was wrapped over her shoulder, and squeezes it tightly.

Fleck led the way as Meg pointed out where the door was, and they knocked, and the couple that answered was almost shocked at the state Erik was in.

"I'm afraid we're making another visit," Meg says, wincing, and Erik groans from the pain of being upright.

It was all quick work, and she couldn't bear to watch, but even as she closed her eyes, she held his hand tightly, a comfort to them both. It was strange, now, not having the cold band of his ring pressing against her fingers. She stole a glance at them, and saw that a pale ring-shaped patch of skin encircled the base of his finger, lighter than the rest of his skin.

In that moment, Meg wanted to lace her fingers with his, to hold his hand tighter. It was so incredibly lonely, being a foreigner. She went from having many friends, a family, and a career to bring far away from her mother, her home, and her dearest friends.

But something she'd never had before, was him.

The blonde felt his fingers quiver for a moment, but then, twined them back, and she lay her head gently against the couch cushion. Golden hair brushed against his arms, and he closed his eyes, as if to memorize the feel of her hand tightly locked in his.

It was when she was nearly asleep that she felt a hand shake her shoulder.

"Hm?" She groans, and at first, all she was aware of was her slackened hand in Erik's.

"I told you to let her sleep!" She hears the masked man hiss, and Meg glances up at whoever had awoken her, and found Hammerstein staring down at her.

"What? Speak slower," He says, in poor, slow French, and Meg giggles.

"Have you learned some French, Sir?" Meg grins, lifting her head.

"It's . . . Important to speak with . . . Uh, employees," he explains, and the blonde finds it more than sweet that he'd attempted to learn it, for whatever French person had come to work for him. It couldn't be Erik, for he spoke English fluently.

The sun was setting outside, and Meg felt so hungry she nearly was sick. The dancer was light-headed as she stood, and she removed her hands from Erik to steady herself. A long, dexterous hand shot out to steady her, and wrapped around her thigh.

"Are you okay?" He asks, and Meg turns to look down, blushing deeply and nodding. He removes his hand, and she notices then that the buttons of his shirt were opened, and his chest was laid bare. Gauze was wrapped around his rib cage, spanning his stomach, and she gulped.

Her eyes quickly flicked back up to his before turning, and she avoided whatever look was in his eyes just then.

Erik glances down at his unbuttoned shirt, and clears his throat uncomfortably, and Meg turns her back to him, gesturing for Hammerstein.

"Can you . . . Can you help me get him back?" She questions, and ignores her grumbling stomach as he comes forward.

"Already on it! That's why I . . . Woke you up," he stumbles over the French words. He comes closer, and gently loops an arm under Erik's shoulder, and the injured man groans as he's lifted to a standing position.

A bare, tattooed arm extends toward Meg, and she scurries over to him, slowly pressing herself against his side, unsure of how to help him. She was much too short to aid him in the way Hammerstein was, but she held his hand as it clutched her shoulder, and she wound her fingers around his waistband.

Once they'd made it back to the tenement, they both help Erik lay down with pained groans, and the blonde apologizes far too many times than necessary.

"Stop saying 'I'm sorry' so much," Erik says and Meg fusses over him, forcing a pillow beneath his neck.

"I'm sorr-" she starts, and he grins, almost wide-faced and toothy.

Her heart stuttered at the sight. Especially when his fingers began to inch towards hers.

"I'd best be on my way," Hammerstein interjects, and she turns toward him, and Erik pulls his hand away, almost grumpily.

"Oh, of course! I'll let you out," she says, running up and helping the door open, but he waves her off.

"I'm perfectly fine opening the door myself. No . . . Need to do what I can do . . . Perfectly fine," he replies, and she nods.

"Very well. We'll see you soon, Sir."

He was gone, and Meg, without sparing a glance at Erik, made her way to the kitchen and removed the last of the bread, two apples, a hunk of cheese, and half a pitcher of water.

She brings the entire thing over, kneeling next to Erik, and turns to glance up at him. Fingers were pressed against his broken ribs, where his stomach was. There was a look of unease, of general dislike crossing his face.

"Maybe some bread?" She offers, and he shakes his head.

"M' not hungry," he replies, and Meg arches an eyebrow, but shrugs it off. He promises, however, that he'll eat the next day.

It was quiet between them, but she felt his eyes on her, and tried to still her breathing when she felt fingers gently skim the outer shell of her ear, which he tucked a strand of hair behind.

"I have something for you," he whispers, almost nervously, and she rotates, his hand falling away. "It's in my coat pocket."

Her grin falls, and the blonde's eyes become warmly affectionate, as if she were about to cry. "You got something for me?"

She stands to retrieve it, and in his coat pocket is a finely, nearly wrapped object, heavier to the touch and rectangular shaped.

Meg sits down where she was before, beside the couch on the floor, and Erik watches her expression as she unwraps the present, glued to each corner and crevice of her face.

Tears filled her eyes as she held the newest edition of 'Frankenstein'. The binding was gorgeous, hardcover and smooth, with a brilliant blue cover. The pages were stained gold, and it was hers. It was all hers.

As she opened the cover, she found writing already there, and recognized the romantic loops as Erik's immediately. But this time, it wasn't in that horrid red, but instead in a soft pink.

"To my dearest friend," it read. "Happy Birthday, Marguerite. From your own monster, who would follow you to the North Pole and to the ends of the earth, Erik."

Not for the first time after receiving a present, tears streamed down Meg's face, and she wiped them away.

"How did you know it was my birthday?" She whispers, turning to him, and he plays with the buttons of his shirt, looping them through the loops.

"I've given you presents before, Meg, though I'm certain you didn't know they were from me. And I know that it can't replace the copy you father got you, and you hadn't said anything about your birthday today, so I wanted to —"

"Oh, Erik!" She gasps, wiping another tear away before throwing herself onto his upper body, away from his ribs. She tucked her face against his warm neck, smelling of soap and sweat and something so distinctly Erik, and arms wove around her back softly, almost too afraid to hold her back completely.

"I've never had someone like you in my life, Meg Giry," he admits as a whisper, and her grip tightens around him. "I hardly know what to do." There was a frustrated huff of breath from him, and then, finally, he held her back, just as tight. "I don't deserve you, my friend."

"I've never had anyone in my life like you either, Erik," she replies, breathing in his scent before speaking. "And you deserve me plenty. Everyone deserves companionship and kindness. You are no different from everyone else in the human race."

"My friend," he murmurs, fingers brushing the back of her shoulder, as if he still couldn't believe it. She felt his neck crane down, felt his chin and bloated lip against her forehead, felt the harsh line of his mask.

"Best friend," she whispers, and his breath catches, and suddenly, he was clutching her tightly, and the blonde felt tears, unalike to her, dripping onto her scalp.

"I thought I was the ugliest thing, the worst of the worst, lower than human kind itself, my own sort of monster." His voice broke, and she pressed her forehead against his jaw. "But you, oh, Meg Giry, you make me feel like a man. You make me feel real."

"You already are," she says, pulling away, thumb brushing against a strip of skin beneath his mask. "You were already a completely whole person, Erik. You weren't some half-thing living. You were whole, you were complete, you were alive. And you're still those things." The dancer gives him a watery grin, tears filling her own eyes. "But I get what you mean. You make me so happy, too."

He didn't feel embarrassed when he began to cry. He felt safe around her, safe to express what he felt, safe to be himself. It was not only new to feel vulnerable around someone, but an entirely different one, too, to feel comfortable doing so. He was loath to show tears in front of anyone.

But with Meg, he felt heard.

Even if she didn't always understand him, she tried. Oh, she tried.

She pulls away, then, to gently brush the tears on his bare side away. A tear fled down her own cheek, but she seemed entirely unbothered by it.

With shaky hands, he cupped her cheeks, fingers trembling as they made contact. His fingers spanned much of her skull, and she sighed, leaning against his right hand.

He wondered, then, if she felt the same way he did, but that was surely impossible.

"Mon lutin," he murmurs, thumb tracing down the bridge of her nose, and his middle finger tracing her left ear. "Belle âme." She leaned into each ministration, and it took his breath away.

He wanted to kiss her, just then. But Madame Giry's words threatened his confidence, and the idea that Meg may not feel the same, and the guilt of betraying the woman who had saved him.

"Happy nineteenth birthday."

Meg was suddenly sure of herself when she swooped down, much too quick to have second thoughts, and pressed her lips against his.

🪄✨
BUH DUM TISSSSS
🪄✨