A/N: Written for an anonymous Tumblr prompt, which read "I've always wanted to see an angsty fic where EC have a son and E becomes jealous and a little bitter that his son is becoming everything he ever wanted to be (very handsome, talented, intelligent, well-liked and well-known, etc.). And E wishes he didn't feel this way, but he is angry at C sometimes because of how much she loves their son."
The moment he saw the child he knew. There he lay, wrapped in swaddling and cradled in Christine's arms. At the time he had touched him in wonder, wonder that something so small and so perfect could have come from him. Eyes watering, he kissed the boy's forehead, kissed Christine, and pushed the knowledge away, but oh, how he knew. Someday that boy, that innocent little boy, would usurp him in Christine's affections. It was obvious from the first moment, the tears shining in her eyes and her faint smile looking down at the baby in her arms.
(Sometimes, he thinks, it would be kinder if he had died before the day could come.)
What use has she for him, Erik, anymore? The boy can sing to please her. The boy can compose wonderful music with none of the darkness in it. The boy is handsome, has a bright future and young women fawning over him. She loves the boy so very much, prattles on about his latest endeavours all of the time when his own matter not a whit to her anymore. He could be dead in front of her and she would never notice, too caught up in Anatole's new piece or Anatole's new sketch or Anatole was reading or some such thing.
There's an idea.
He has poisons, any number of poisons. Well, not the poisons themselves anymore but the recipes still. It would not be so very difficult to do some mixing and…dispose of the boy. He had considered that it may prove necessary, all of those years ago during Christine's pregnancy. If the child were born looking like him, it would not be so terrible to do away with it. It would be a kindness, in fact. Then he lay eyes on the baby and his definitely flawless face, and such plans went out of the window.
Perhaps he ought to reconsider it.
No. No! He must not do that. He promised Christine no more murders. That is a promise that he must not break. True, it would not look like murder. The poison he has in mind would make it look simply like an attack of the heart, which is not unheard of happening in young men sometimes. Some defect simply inhabits them from time to time, and ticks down until it strikes them down. Who is to say that the boy did not inherit any internal defect in spite of his appearance of flawlessness?
(He would know, though. He would know, and he is not the man that he was, the man that might do such a thing. And whatever he might fear of Anatole, whatever he might fear of losing Christine's love, he could not do that to his boy. It is not Anatole's fault that he is so handsome, so talented, so intelligent. If it is anyone's fault it is Erik's own, for teaching him.)
It is only natural that Christine loves him so, cares for him so. Erik cannot blame her, not truly, and yet he cannot help the twisting, aching burn inside of his chest that feels as if it will consume him. She loves Anatole. She loves him more than she can ever love Erik because he is perfect, so very perfect. Oh, he cuts a fine figure, tall and elegant in black with his curling dark hair and hazel eyes. He came out top of his year from the Conservatoire, is fluent in Latin and Persian and Italian and spends his nights reading dusty medical tomes, turning a blind eye to the pretty young ladies who flutter their eyelashes when he passes.
No. It is no wonder that Christine loves him so. He does not begrudge her that. He only wishes she still loved him the way she once did, before Anatole became the man he is.
If he could only earn back her love somehow, he would breathe a little easier. But it is a noose around his throat, tightening each time she smiles with such pride, such love over their son, and it is killing him slowly but she cannot see that, is blind to it. And somehow he knows that he must not tell her, that it would upset her to hear such words from him, so he musters a smile for her, and swallows the lump in his throat, pats her hand gently.
It is not so very long since he sat in Box Five, and watched her down on that stage, the Queen of Paris very nearly. And now he sits beside her in that same box, his hand resting on her knee, their son, their popular, beloved son, on that very stage, bringing Paris to its knees with his fingers dancing across piano keys.
(He should be proud. If he were another man he would be proud, utterly delighted to have fathered such a boy, such a man. There is that check of pride in his heart, when he looks down at Anatole seated at the piano, straight-backed and confident. But he cannot forget that Christine has lost her love for him because of Anatole, and the emptiness comes crashing back, reminding him that he does not matter now, and has not in such a long time.)
Sometimes, he thinks, it would be a mercy if he could lay down one night, and slip away quietly, never have to see the love for him dulled from her eyes. And sometimes, he thinks, it would be easier if they had never had Anatole at all, or if Anatole had looked like him. But he knows these things would hurt her, and so he silences the thoughts, and closes his eyes, and pretends that all is well, that they only have each other.
(And it does not ease the pain, not truly. But it loosens the noose just a little, enough that he can look on his boy and feel the same little flicker of tenderness that he felt the first night he ever laid eyes on him. And maybe, maybe that is all he can expect, really. Maybe it is enough.)