Hey friends! This is going to be a multi-chapter story, and I plan to update weekly every Sunday night, EST. Let me know if you like it! I've got some juicy plans for this one :)

Be aware, though, that this story will contain some sensitive material.

He'd never spoken to her. He'd only ever seen her in passing, and it was never for long, but she stood out starkly. A pale girl with golden hair among the dark-featured Romani clan was easy to spot, and so was her red-haired father.

Erik knew that he and the girl were the same age. 16. Javert, his master, had said as much. Javert was fascinated with the Daaes. He himself was not natural-born Romani, but was of French and Spanish blood. As such, he had the same dark features as the rest of the clan; but like Erik and the Daaes, was widely considered an outsider. A useful outsider, whose freak-show (featuring Erik) brought in riches; he was an outsider nonetheless.

The Daaes were, apparently, originally from Sweden. The slight accent in their French confirmed that this was probably true. They were also considered useful, as the man's fiddle playing was impressive enough to attract a crowd, and his daughter's dancing accompanied the music beautifully. The girl's name was Christine. Her father, Gustave, clearly loved her dearly.

Had loved her.

It was late, well past midnight, when Javert opened wide the door of Erik's caravan and, holding Christine by the wrist, flung her forth. It was dim as Erik sat at his table, and even through the dim candlelight, Erik could see the puffy, tear-eyed redness on Christine's face. It was when her eyes went wide and she looked away that Erik remembered.

He wasn't wearing his mask. He cursed inwardly as he reached for it on the table and tied it to his face, where it covered everything but his lower lip and chin.

Erik knew she'd seen him without it before. Everyone at the camp had ventured a look at The Singing Corpse, and everyone knew of the red-spotted skin stretching over his protruding cheekbones, swollen upper lip, and sunken-mismatched eyes, the last of which could unfortunately be seen even with the mask. Everyone had seen his lack of nose (or rather, presence of two gaping holes in the center of his face). He'd heard screams, the sounds of people retching, and disgusted cursing when, in his act at the Romani travelling carnival, he sang to the audience and then whipped the mask off his face.

It was something he learned to block out. He went far away, somewhere very far from the carnival, when the revulsion in the crown could be heard. But Javert kept the act going every night, and the people of the clan allowed it, as it was arguably the most popular show. More popular than acrobats and fortune telling. Without the act, Javert explained frequently, the people of the clan would suffer; refusing to participate is a selfish thing.

So yes, of course Christine had seen his face before. She was simply being polite now by looking away.

"Gustave is dead," barked Javert from the caravan entrance, almost like an order. "He suffered a stroke and died this morning." Erik's back went rigid. He wouldn't consider Javert and Gustave to have been friends, per se, but they shared a common understanding that, while they were treated with respect, they would both be asked to leave should they cease to bring in money. Of course Erik hadn't known. It was the day after the clan had set up camp in a new area, and one of the few times that Erik was not forced to perform, as no carnival existed here yet. He hadn't left his caravan all day. He hadn't seen a single soul. For all he knew, every member of the clan was dead.

Erik stared at Javert, who appeared surprisingly sober. His curly dark beard seemed to blend in to the rest of his dark clothing, and his enormous body took up most of the caravan entrance. Christine was a small, skinny statue, her only movement the heavy rise and fall of her breath. If he wasn't mistaken, he could see more tears streaking down her swollen face. He blinked. "I..."

"She will be staying in this caravan."

Erik's chair knocked over backwards as he bolted to a standing position, and his hands gripped the table. "What?"

"You heard me, boy. Don't act stupid now. You heard me."

Erik swallowed. "But...where will I..."

"You'll be living here, too."

He felt his mouth hang open, and it was an effort to close it again. "But I...she...Mademoiselle Daae has a caravan, doesn't she?" He glanced in her direction, but not even her eyes had moved. She continued to stare at the ground in the corner of the caravan.

"The Karela family needed the caravan that Gustave and Christine were inhabiting," explained Javert. "The Karela boy and his new wife recently had a baby. They want to start a family of their own, and so I offered the living space to them."

Offered it. As if Javert had any claim to it. As if being an outsider like Gustave gave him a right to take hold of his property, of his child, after death. He doubted that Christine had given any kind of permission. This didn't surprise Erik in the slightest, not when it came to Javert. And he doubted the clansmen had any objection.

Erik could feel his hands whitening as his grip on the table hardened. "Where will she sleep?" he whispered, knowing full well that he was not about to watch a young woman curl up on the ground like a dog taking a nap.

At once, Christine's head lowered and Javert's eyes snapped to her back. "Well," he seethed, seeming to choose his words carefully, "I asked this one to get her clothes and bed-things ready before we departed, but she refused. And so she will have to do without."

Christine lifted a hand to her mouth and bit on the nail of her thumb, chewing on it. Her face scrunched, as if she'd just realized that Javert, for all his faults, was a man of his word. He could see the regret, palpable on her face.

"Christine, in order keep a roof over your head, you will continue to be of use to the clan, to me," said Javert lowly. "You will continue to make money, and in exchange, I will keep you safe from starvation and the cold."

"Who-" Christine's voice came out husky, so she cleared her throat and tried again. She didn't turn around. "Whose music will I dance to?" Erik stared at her. Her voice was lovely.

There was a thick silence in the air, and then Javert said, spacing his words out to enunciate each sound, "You won't be dancing."

Christine's eyebrows furrowed, and at last she turned to look at Javert. The man only glared at her and then turned, slamming the door behind him.

Erik's heart hammered in his chest, and in his head raced a thousand thoughts. Why here? What was this? Was this some sort of test? Or a game? Why would Javert place her in his caravan, when he could have let her stay in her own? Why give it away to a family he cared very little about? What would this be like? How could he be comfortable if he needed to wear this goddamn mask all the time?

Christine whirled back around to face Erik. They both stood, staring at one another. He could only hear the ticking of his clock hanging on the wall and the heavy breathing between them. Finally, Christine looked down and, holding her skirt tightly in her hands, she whispered, "Do you...please...have an extra blanket that I could use tonight?" Her blue eyes again met his mismatched ones.

He nodded slowly and allowed his hands to release their death grip on the table's edge. He gathered the sheet music and pencil that lay there and placed them into the small notebook he kept on the table. Erik walked carefully to the bed, painfully aware of his every movement, and reached underneath for his wooden storage box. He pulled out a spare pillow and blanket. He turned to her, took one look at her, and cleared his throat. "You can have the bed tonight."

Her eyes widened. "But..."

"I'm content on the floor." Already he began setting up a makeshift bed on the ground, across from his actual sleeping space.

Erik looked up at her and almost laughed despite himself. The girl looked genuinely distressed at the idea of taking his bed. "I promise I may look like a monster, Mademoiselle, but my bed is not infested with insects, rats, or demons. I keep my space quite clean and free of malevolent spirits."

Her face went from worry to mortification. Dear God, now she was embarrassed. "No!" she cried. "No, it's not...it's just. It's your bed. I don't want you to...it's not your fault that I..." She swallowed. "It's not fair for you."

He understood now, and only stared at her. "Like I said, I am content to sleep on the floor," was all he could whisper. His heart hammered, and his hands shook, as he finished his sleeping quarter. "There's a washroom at the far end of the caravan. If you want to prepare for sleep in there, you can. I know you don't have any clothes with you, but if you choose to...be more comfortable, I won't look. I will face the wall."

Christine nodded, and like in a trance, walked to the washroom, her hands clenched at her side.

Erik did indeed face the wall when he lay down, not even bothering to remove his shoes or mask. Over and over he played in his mind her expression of concern as she said, "It's not fair for you." He closed his eyes and listened to her finish in the washroom and stop in her tracks as she neared where he slept, as if checking to make sure that he really wasn't looking. She bolted to the bed and he heard her rustle under the covers. The candle continued to burn. He didn't blame her for not wanting to blow it out.

A few seconds passed, and then he heard her whisper, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he replied. But he doubted either of them would actually sleep that night.