What Your Heart Knows

The dream was so real – more so now than at any other time. Dark seas, angry words, the horrible face screaming, the sound of a pistol shot, cries of horror and dismay. Try as he might, his own sobs carry no sound. It is a dream, only a dream. If he could only open his eyes. Where is he? Why is his guardian not here? Just open your eyes. All will be well when you open them.

At last, after a fierce struggle, his lids open, his eyes take a moment to focus. The room is unfamiliar – no small lamp at his bedside to comfort him when terrors appear. Despite the fragments of light piercing the darkness through the curtained windows, he is unable to get his bearings. The bed coverings tucked so tightly he cannot move…to breathe…to call out. Trapped. Kicking wildly, he manages to loosen the bonds and falls to the floor.

Free, I am free.

Gulping in air, he sees a door, he stumbles across the room and turns the knob. Light – a short hallway. Sounds – mother talking to a man. The voice, he knows the voice. Mother is talking to the voice in his dreams. The shadow who always comes to rescue him. Is that why he did not come to his dream tonight – he is here, as a man?

"Maman," he cries, bursting into the sitting room. As she turns to him, he sees a man – a man dressed in black with a white mask covering half his face. Was this his angel?

"Gustave, what is it?" Christine bends down, gathering him close. "Was it your dream again?"

With a nod, he turns to stare at Erik, who stands absolutely still – watching. "Are you my angel?"

"Mr. Y is an old friend from Paris…" Christine chokes out.

Mother knows him, too. The warmth of recognition dispels the fear of his dream as well as his normal reticence when meeting someone new. "You are my angel. With a rush, he leaves his mother's embrace, running to wrap his arms around the man's waist – a real person, not a ghost – in a hug.

The touch of Mr. Y's long fingers – so long – on his shoulders is tentative – unsure. As Gustave tightens his embrace, the hands relax and Gustave closes his eyes taking comfort in their pressure on his back. The hands fill him with warmth, a sense of safety.

The horrid dream relegated once again to the place where horrid dreams lie in wait – for now, he is safe. He knows these hands – as he knows the devils and demons who torment him – the hands and soothing voice that appear whenever the night frightens him.

"Do you play the piano? Your fingers are so long – like mine."

"Gustave!"

The sound of her voice and the look on Maman's face confuses him. She is frightened, angry – why would she be angry?

"Mr. Y is the owner of Phantasma. You must show respect."

The man laughs – a deep, resonant laugh. "You have a son – a young Vicomte. I am pleased to meet you young man – and, yes, I play the piano…violin as well. You?"

"Yes, monsieur." Gustave shows him his own long fingers. Compared to his classmates, his hands are those of a grown man – nimble and fluid as they dance across the keyboard. His piano teacher cannot keep up with his demands to play more and more difficult pieces. The fear he will be punished vanishes along with the memory of his nightmare – the man seems amused, although Maman is still anxious – she is biting her lower lip and tearing at her handkerchief.

Who is this man – why is he in his dreams?

Despite his relief, he is aware he made some sort of mistake, his mother's discomfort transfers to him. His releases his hold on the man's waist. Awkward now – not understanding his own actions – except he was terrified by his dream and seeing this Mr. Y, or whatever his name is, gave him comfort.

He goes to his mother's side, eyes down, folding himself into her silken gown wishing to disappear. His fears assuaged, his manners recalled, he is unsure of what to do now. He would never have run to his father in such a bold way. His father would not allow him the closeness of a hug – not without permission – which was seldom given.

Does Father not love me?

The response was always the same – he did love him…very much. It was part of his own upbringing that guided his behavior. Outward displays of affection were forbidden.

Even when we are alone?

Look with your heart – your heart always knows.

When considering her explanation, as he was wont to do, he realized that his father seldom touched Maman, either – or when he did, it was with a hard hand and brought pain and sometimes fear to her eyes. Such pretty eyes, but so sad.

Muttering a goodnight to Mr. Y at his mother's insistence. They walk with her arm loosely resting on his shoulders back to his bedroom.

Despite the ruckus he created and her earlier upset, his mother is different – something about this Mr. Y. Tonight her eyes are not sad at all. She seems happy. He cannot remember seeing her look so beautiful. Not that she is not always beautiful. His mother could not be less so – the reaction of people when they were simply walking down the street – stopping to stare – especially after her performances at the Opera House – informed him that there was something special about her.

It pleases him when he is told he favors her.

"I know Mr. Y, Maman, I know him." Gustave's grave tone belies the excitement stirring inside him at this admission. His hazel eyes – more gold than brown, with traces of her aquamarine, are luminescent even in the darkened bedroom. Lying back on his pillow, he tugs at the lace ruffle of her dressing gown framing her throat, an attempt to impress upon her the truth of what he says.

A small frown crosses her brow, the aforementioned pale green eyes narrow as she tucks the blankets around him, her lips purse.

What is she thinking? Why is she not pleased?

"Does Father know Mr. Y?"

An eyebrow quirk. "Yes, we all knew one another in Paris."

"Did I know Mr. Y when I was a baby?"

"No, my dear, he left before you were born."

Is she going to cry? Why does she look so sad again? What did he say? "I know him from my dreams." The words come out slowly, judging how much he should say. He wants her to be happy again. Perhaps telling her about his dreams of the voice will make her smile.

What is more disconcerting – the sight of Gustave embracing Erik with such trust and affection, or the look in Erik's eyes that pierce her soul? Can he know in such a brief period of time? There is a certain amount of relief in his knowing – or at minimum suspecting – no need for stories or excuses. The shock of seeing Erik tonight – evoking memories – feelings – how she wants to hold him again, kiss him…encouraging her to think of a future instead of being mulled in the empty existence she calls her life.

She cursed him for daring to intrude, but these past moments were more life than she has experienced in ten years – since he left her. Gustave gave him the reception she might have given were she still that girl in Paris. Not the automaton she has become, trained to be nobility – forced to hide her true self – always on stage now…always playing a role, even so not fitting into Raoul's world.

Raoul protected her – she had nowhere to go. It would be easy to blame Erik for her choice – a choice he made for her, not once, but twice. What happened to the girl who walked Europe with her father, living on hope and prayers that they would earn enough for food and board – at minimum food?

The girl who trusted an Angel of Music and became a diva – bowing to thunderous applause. The girl who gave herself to Erik the man. The girl who ultimately chose the safety of marriage to her childhood friend because she was weary of struggling. The courage it took her to leave the mansion that night was all she had left and when she found herself alone atop the Palais Garnier, she succumbed to the choice Erik made for her – security.

Perhaps Erik was right – something within her knew she must stay with Raoul – knew that she was with child. Had Erik known this as well?

The dreams faded over the years – her love for Gustave filled her with incredible joy and the loneliness she felt as a woman in a sterile marriage was filled with loving her precious child. Still, he came to her – not every night, but often enough that she could not begin to forget him – as if that was possible. Still, even with her father – the memories dimmed. Erik, in some way, managed to maintain a strong presence in her mind – the dreams – most often of the times she would sing under his tutelage. Other times remembrance of that night – the night of the new moon when their son was conceived. She would waken with joy – as she had done then – but as happened then, he was not there.

Now to discover her son…their son…knew him.

Oh, Erik – why did you go? Why have you returned?

So the dreams were true? When Squelch told him of the child, he wondered…his mind drifting back to that long ago winter in the abandoned warehouse, where he, Adele and Meg huddled around a small fire one, of the many stoked by those taking shelter from the snowstorm that raged outside.

The nightmares of the past no longer troubled him – now his nights were filled with memories of her – more painful than any thugee, gypsy king or Persian shah's torture could evoke. Tonight was different, her moans disturbed his sleep – she was in pain – the cries awakened him – the wailing of an infant. A quick surveille of the populace of the large room found no infants – crying or otherwise.

Over the years the dreams varied. There were times when Christine seemed to be looking for him in the old tunnels, others when she simply stood at the mirror. Dreams about the child took on a different tone – his dreams frightened him – focused on a fear of the sea and a gun. He would speak to both of them, offering a prayer for their safety, such as he prayed. I love you.

The boy's reaction to him shocked both of them. Fear darkened her eyes – would she tell him? Was there anything to tell? Perhaps he was simply so tied to her, the night of the child's birth was reflexive on his part. Perhaps it truly was just a dream.

This was more complicated than he first imagined. The boy must be considered.

A/N - The prompt thanks to timebird84 on tumblr - #Things I Dreamt Last Night.