This came in first place in the Mort Rouge Christmas drabble phic contest, and won the Tolstoy and Hemingway special awards, for most well-written and best use of theme, respectively. I am probably going to expand this story into a longer phic, so think of this as a 'teaser'.
I do not own Phantom of the Opera.
Dissemblance
Some say that those born on Christmas day are blighted by terrible misfortune, cursed for daring to share the birth date of the Holy Child. Anyone who could lay eyes on my baby would find themselves instantly dismissing any such notion. For even as Erik's tragic face ensured him a lifetime of woe, surely my son's inherent beauty will guarantee the opposite.
Charles looks nothing like his father, thankfully: we had feared that he would, and that the child would be a constant reminder of that which we had tried to ignore and forget. Charles more closely resembles my own father: the fine wisps of down that cover his head are a dark brown, already noticeably curly. His eyes are blue; perhaps they will darken, to match my father's hazel irises, or remain their current azure, his sole resemblance to myself. I hadn't imagined that he would be so tiny, so frighteningly delicate. This is the first time that I've been so near an infant since before my mother died, when my father and I still lived in our village. I cradle him almost gingerly, for fear of breaking him. The tiny snub of a nose that rests in the center of his face trembles slightly as he hiccups, lazy and sated after his first meal.
My husband has been infinitely good to me, though I know that I don't deserve the kindness. My gratefulness knows no bounds, that he should welcome me back after such obvious and unforgivable betrayal. Still, I feared that he would reject Charles, as he has every right to. He attempted to do so, albeit indirectly, throughout most of the past several months. I could see the darkness of resentment in his eyes as he looked at me sometimes, even though he thought himself subtle. I never mentioned it; he would only have denied it, and assured his complete love and acceptance of my child.
A few hours ago, when my baby was finally slumbering in my arms, the nurse left to fetch whom she believed to be the child's father. I prepared myself for the rejection that would surely destroy me when he found himself unable to care for Charles, unable to love him as his own.
He entered slowly, his eyes on the floor, clearly sharing my wish to delay the horrible moment. It wasn't until he had pulled a chair to my bedside that he was able to raise his eyes to meet my own. "Look at him," I encouraged, and he did. His thoughts flickered through his eyes as he raised them back to my own gaze: first, the prepared reaction of disappointment, then awe, then, miraculously, love. Charles is my child, part of me, and, somehow, that is enough. We both realized it in that moment, and we know that it is true. Charles will never know his blood father, but he will have a true father.
Looking at my husband, where he remains kneeling at the bedside, I smile to myself; he has fallen asleep gazing at Charles, his gold eyes closed in peaceful slumber. Shifting slightly, careful not to wake either of them, I remove his mask, setting it on the nightstand. Brushing back a few stray strands of black hair, I whisper to him: "I love you, Erik."