Title from Beneath the Brine by the Family Crest. TW for alcohol abuse and gambling.
Gustave begins playing piano when he turns five. Raoul expects him to enjoy the lessons for a few days before turning his mind to other pursuits; he never sits still for a moment, always squirming away from the dinner table to play some game, and so it's a surprise when he manages to concentrate on piano for hours at a time, an impressive feat for one so young.
"You must be so proud," the teacher tells him after a week. "A prodigy, truly." Raoul can't help but nod in agreement, and his stomach twists at Christine's nervous laughter.
"Perhaps he takes after his mother," Raoul says, giving her a half smile. She agrees too quickly and then changes the subject. That night, as they lie together and he tries to think of nothing but the way she feels in his arms, she turns to face him.
"We could sign him up for other lessons," she suggests. "Perhaps he'd enjoy horseback riding. And when he's older you can take him sailing."
"He loves piano," Raoul tells her. "Let it be." And there's a fear in her eyes she can't completely hide, and he wonders if by staying silent he's making it worse. He imagines telling her, "I love you two no less, even though he's not mine," but can't bring himself to say it. A childish part of him hopes that if nobody says it then it won't be true.
Over the next several years they put on a marvelous show of pretending. He offers Gustave a violin and shows him the few notes he'd managed to learn from months of painstaking training from Christine's father, and then Raoul watches his son surpass him in a manner of days. He buys him a horse and takes him out riding, only for Gustave to complain the entire way and refuse to go out again the next day. He gives him books collected from his childhood, fairytales and adventure stories in hopes that they can discuss them, and finds them piled up in Gustave's room under sheets of musical scribblings Raoul can hardly read.
"You're pushing him too hard," Christine tells him, and he feels the sting of betrayal.
"You're coddling him," he accuses. "Most boys his age will be at boarding school, and it's important that he makes those connections and gets a proper education."
"He needs to be happy," she says. "He doesn't want to go. Does that matter at all?" Raoul suddenly wonders if his parents had similar arguments, fought over their disappointment of a son who insisted on pursuing the navy instead of family affairs. Likely not, since they already had an heir lined up and could afford to let him go. Likely not, because they'd quickly given up hope on him being anything but a failure.
"I'm doing this because I love him," Raoul says, guilt twisting in his stomach. "He has a legacy he'll inherit, and I want to prepare him for it."
"He needs to be a child," she says. "And he's not like you, he's not-"
"I KNOW!" He immediately regrets the shout once he sees her eyes widen in fear, sees her almost imperceptible flinch away from him, and he feels sick. "Christine," he says, and he doesn't bother reaching for her.
"Raoul," she says, and her voice is nowhere near as steady as it was before. He steps back and looks away, wishing that he couldn't recognize the desperation in her "please".
"I know he's not like me," he says, and it's the closest either of them have come to the truth. "I want him to be happy. I just…" He shakes his head, and looks back at his wife. She looks like she might cry, and although he imagines gathering her in his arms he knows his comfort would be unwelcome.
"Perhaps we can hire a tutor, and take him out more," she suggests. "Maybe in a few years he'll be ready." Raoul nods, a battle not so much lost as surrendered, and he begins to make the arrangements for private tutors and various interpersonal events. Unsurprisingly the only ones Gustave agrees to are concerts.
His first recital is an astonishing success, and Raoul is a horrible father. He can hardly stand to look at Gustave, not after tonight's parade of men who've all clasped his hand and complimented him on what a fine son he's raising, what a talented musician. Genius, really, and they've heard astonishing things about his voice. And he's already composing too, at such a young age.
He wonders what sort of opera Gustave will write, wonders how his voice will sound once he hits puberty, and knows it will be the same baritone that haunts his nightmares. And he flinches away from Christine when she tries to straighten his cravat and her hands come too close to his neck, so she has avoided touching him the whole night.
When they were young there were many hugs, and kisses, and they held hands everywhere. He doesn't know when these little things faded, signs of affection becoming awkward and stilted, replaced by scripted kisses and mechanical caresses and leaving him bereft. He's grateful that Gustave is still on the receiving end of her affection, and then hates himself for the flare of jealousy he feels as he tries to remember what her love felt like. In his darkest moments he even doubts her, wonders if both he and Gustave are merely surrogates, replacements for a love she cannot have, and then reminds himself that despite everything she's still here. As little as their rings might mean, as cold as their bed feels, she's still here. And she loves Gustave, that he cannot truly doubt. Only resent.
It's all horribly unfair and he knows it. Gustave is his own person, with his own talents and interests. It's not Gustave's fault, and while it may be Christine's he doesn't have the heart to blame her. He's the one who proposed, who rushed the wedding, who was desperate to have her in his arms. And now he's the first to leave the recital, telling her he needs some air and abandoning the stifling party. He lies to himself even as he nears the saloon, promising himself that there will be no drinks tonight.
At first some other gentlemen sit with him and attempt to strike up a conversation, but as the night wears on they drift away. It's impossible to ignore how he's just a little too loud when he laughs, a little too eager to play another round, a little too desperate as orders another glass and downs it like medicine. At least gambling is a game he has a chance at winning, but he plays too long for anything but a loss. Once his wallet is empty his new friends vanish to more lucrative opportunities and he sits alone, and the bartender cuts him off and tells him they're closing as the hours turn from late to early. He staggers home alone, only thinking of how cold he is and how desperately he wants Christine.
His father had been a firm believer that physical affection was something restricted only to mothers, and his mother had relocated to heaven too soon in his childhood. Christine was really the first person who'd sought his touch, who'd embraced him and pressed her face into his shoulder and held him there as if she were memorizing the feel of him in her arms. Her hair smelt of lilacs, and her hands were always cold, and her eyes used to sparkle when she looked at him. He opens the door and sees her, sitting in the foyer with worry marking wrinkles across her face, and she is still so lovely. Raoul reaches out for her, hoping beyond reason for her to reach back and bridge the distance…
She flinches, and in her eyes he can see the apologies she's made tonight, the days she's spent pouring over their ledgers trying to make the money last, the way she turns her face away from his kisses when his breath smells of whiskey. She flinches, and he feels as though his heart has cracked neatly in two.
"I'm sorry," he tells her, and his cheeks are wet. Perhaps he's been crying for a while now, and simply failed to notice. The alcohol blurs everything to a pleasant fuzziness, and most of the time it's enough to keep his thoughts at bay, but now they rear up and crash down in a wave that he's drowning under. "I'm so sorry."
"Get some sleep," she tells him, and he nods and follows her upstairs, where he divests himself of his apparel down to his shirt and trousers and then turns, sees her lying in their bed with her back turned to him, and goes to sleep on the couch.
Apparently some part of him hoped that she would stop him, and he's disappointed in himself for the sharp stab of pain he feels when she simply watches him go. He lies on the couch in their private sitting room, staring at the empty fireplace and wondering when she stopped loving him, or if she'd ever even started, until he drifts off into a fitful sleep.