Beautiful

"Do not be nervous," Mr. Squelch tells him.

"Where are we going?"

"To see the Master, of course – that was your wish, was it not?" Miss Fleck responds.

Gustave smiles hesitantly at the little woman.

"You have never seen someone so small – a midget – that is what we are called out there in the world where you live."

The laugh she offers in response startles him. Her voice is high pitched, but gruff – very much that of a grown up. Somehow he expects her to sound like the little girls he met at church. Looking more closely, he can see she is a grown woman, like Maman – just small.

"Novelties, oddities. Some of us are quite famous. The master has given me the opportunity to become famous as well."

"You live here?"

"We all live here – thanks to the Master. Here, we are the normal ones," says Dr. Gangle. Then tossed three balls into the air, keeping them flying, while he trotting alongside the others – it was as if they might get lost in the heavens instead falling back into his hands. "Look around, what do you see?"

"Colors – mostly – so many colors."

"But strange and odd looking people – you must admit."

"Different, I would say."

"You are not afraid, then?"

"Should I be? You said Mr. Y wanted to see me – he is my mother's friend."

"Precisely," Fleck says, leaping into Squelch's arms, allowing him to shift her onto a broad shoulder.

Gustave is fascinated at the size of his muscles and the ease with which he lifts her up – tiny as she may be, she is not the feather she appears when in his hands.

"I must finish some work," Erik calls to him from a two-headed mannequin, one head having come detached from his body. "Walk around a while – then we shall explore the park."

Gustave's eyes widen. At first glance, it seems the Eyrie is busy with other performers from the Park, but on closer observation, most of the people are automatons. The mirrors that line the walls distort the images, so even what is real changes into something else by simply walking a few steps. The idea of being able to change his shape and size finds him excited, wanting to experience more. Nothing is as it appears in this place.

The Trio disappear, blending into the mileau, leaving him on his own to wander. The grand piano draws him. Sitting down, he plays a lilting melody – adding simple words to his tune. "Beautiful. Floating and lovely and bold."

"Your composition?" Erik asks, coming up behind him.

"Yes – just now. This place is beautiful – strange to me, but beautiful. When I dream – not like the dream I had last night – but other dreams filled with music – those do not frighten me."

"You dream of freaks and monsters?"

"I dream of this – I do not know about freaks and monsters – some things look ugly at first, but then change," he says. "Mother says to look with my heart."

Could he trust the boy really know him? This place is the result of a life lived with scorn and abuse as his mainstay – built in homage to those days these past ten years bartering his horrid face and beautiful voice to earn enough money to build this shrine to fantasy and illusion. To have enough standing to sell the jewels brought with him from his days in Persia. Enough to repay Madame Giry and Meg. Enough to gather other freaks – giving them a home – a place to be free. Damning those who used and treated them…him…as animals – less than human.

The first audition – as it was called, perhaps, the most difficult, wanting employment to display himself – was humiliating. For all the danger at the Palais Garnier – he ruled. Inciting fear as a Phantom was heady stuff – the carnival skills he acquired as a child put to good use – providing him a home and a fortune – and a buffer against humans who did not understand a face was not a person.

Then there was the music – he had his music to ease the loneliness. Loneliness preferable to screaming, fainting women – garbage thrown at him, curses and beatings – yes, living below ground with his music was his happiness – the most happiness he had known in his life.

Until Christine.

All at once, his heart was full – there was beauty in his life. He could be her Angel and she, his. Her voice singing his music. The past could be forgotten if not forgiven.

Had the fop not ruined his idyll – he might have been satisfied with being a ghost – a mythical figure.

Left with no choice – he had to save her from that common fellow – nobility be damned.

The common, stubborn, foolish fellow.

When she first came to take her lessons from him revealed as a man, things went well. Their work together was magical – not in the sleight of hand way of his magic or ventriloquism – but a true bond between souls. She told him of her father and his stories – and he gave her a voice – the voice she deserved. That she cared for him at all was a miracle.

The beautiful man with the luxurious blond wavy hair and ice blue eyes interfered – demanded she leave him and lie about it. What had he done? Had he not done everything for her happiness?

Hard as he tried he could not completely recall that night – the night of Don Juan Triumphant. Only that he was being hunted, shot at and he ran, taking her with him. He threatened her – threatened the boy – would have happily killed him, but she showed him compassion – love. Gifted him with his first kiss – first kisses – two kisses. What he had always desired and believed he lost with his rash act. How could he force her to stay?

So she left – as it was meant to be. He did not deserve her love.

His madness, however, cost him his home, his music, his life. Once again he had to run.

Yet, she came back. Concerned enough to look for him. Once again he allowed himself to dream – for a moment, for a night.

Is this boy his son – the product of that night?

The music is a sign, of course – but that could be his mother – his grandfather.

The strange dreams, the enchantment with the oddities – what many consider ugly and grotesque. He speaks of music as I do. He sees the beauty beneath the broken facades.

Yes, that first interview – where he would be on display, led him to this moment – a possible redemption. No cages, this time. Too many years had passed, too many lives taken – he was not about to be the drone to some carny overlord. Times had changed in any event – freaks were good business.

If his heart were not already dead from the loss of Christine, this reentry to the world where he would be on display, after so many years of finding ways to make his way in the world, with the sin of his birth hidden, would likely have killed him. Or led him to kill.

The first night – the sharp dagger of the first scream thrust into his heart, real as any physical attack – caught him off guard. The rage and shame rose within him, taking his breath away – his eyes met those of the woman – causing her to faint. The look of fear overtook the audience – each wide eye focused on him – not knowing what to expect – whether to run or stay – held him, calmed him. Placing the violin under his chin, he played – their fear turned to awe. He was in control.

Bitter tears were shed later – always after.

This new world of America was much like every other place he found himself. Housing was seldom a problem – they would travel with others in the shows. Each town had places where he could find solitude – away from the women. They seemed not to mind his face – now that their days were spent in the company of others similarly blessed by the infinite mercy of their God. Adele and Meg became inured to his deformities – Meg in particular. Nevertheless, he preferred being alone – nursing what was left of his humanity.

Did the boy somehow know this? Could he accept him? His mother had done so.

Have you let it draw you in -

Past the place where dreams begin?

Felt the full breathless pull

Of the beauty underneath?

"Yes. It is all so beautiful"

Dare I?

The scream strikes him to the core – he misjudged the child. What a fool. Nothing has changed. This was not the real world after all. Out there, his face will always produce fear – the boy is proof.

"Gustave? I am here. It is Mother."

Last night he came to me for comfort, now he needs comfort because of me.

"He meant no harm."

His touch was almost more than she could bear – the ballet rats told her – told her how it felt to have a man touch her…there. Told her to touch herself so she would know – the first pain would go and the pleasure would follow.

There were so many times when he would be teaching and her flesh would grow warm – a gentle ache nearly drove her to take his hands from her back and abdomen to press them against her secret place. But she never did and he never tried. Now with his fingers sliding into her, wet with the magical fluid her body created just for this purpose – she understood. Tears formed in her eyes, part of the sensation her body experienced.

They concerned him, those tears. "Are you all right? Should I stop? We can stop now."

"No – no, it is fine. I am fine." Their first coupling hurt, when he entered her, she could not lie – even to herself – despite his efforts to be easy with her. The pain merged with another sort of sensation wanting him to thrust deeper and harder into her. Wanted their bodies to be one, feeling as though she could not get close enough to him, wanting to consume him – digging her fingers into his back, wrapping her thighs around his hips until everything was pure sensation and she gave herself over to the desire for release.

It was perfect – he was perfect – they were made to be together in all things. There was no separation between them – he was as hungry for her as she was for him. This was love – this had to be what love was – joined in their music, now joined body and soul.

Her last recollection before drifting off to sleep was him whispering in her ear. Christine, I love you.

Had she told him? In their murmurings, she surely told him she loved him. He had to know even without her words. So tired. So fulfilled. So happy. The words would come in the morning. If he had to leave Paris, she would go with him – wherever that might be.

The promise of the new moon this child. Their son who screamed, as she had, at the sight of his face that first time. Oh, Erik, I am so sorry.

"Mr. Y, I am sorry," Gustave stammers, looking up from his mother's breast where she cradles his head. "I – you surprised me." Reaching his hand out, he says, "You are my friend. I…I would never want to hurt you."

Erik nods, covering his face as he turns away from the boy and his mother. His mother – who could never intentionally be cruel or hateful.

"Maman?"

Christine's eyes shift back and forth between Erik and Gustave. "Yes, I think that would be all right."

"Mr. Y, look."

Smoothing the boy's hair away from his right ear, she says, "Yes, Mr. Y, look." The distorted patch of skin on Gustave'e scalp is exposed. The ridges not as deep, nor extensive as those on Erik's face and neck, but similar.

"I have a birthmark, too." Gustave lifts his chin, pointing at the raised scarlet stain. "Yours is just bigger. Maman says people are more than how they look. Some nice looking people can be really mean."

Giving Gustave a squeeze, she looks to the Trio. "Go with…your friends. I shall see you at the hotel."

The anger is unreasonable, he knows, but the storm raging within him has been held back for too long. Seeing this child, hearing him, being with him – seeing his inheritance. "Were you planning to tell me?" The instinct to strike out is strong, his hand reaches for her throat as he has done once before. Stop.

Christine does not move – the aquamarine eyes meet his with a plea. He drops his hand, grabbing it with his other, he bows his head.

Pressing her hands against his chest, her words soft. "You left me with son – a son you could have loved. He was never meant to be a secret – but I had no choice. So many times I wished I could tell you."

He stumbles away, confused – unsure. "I have a son." His own words calm him. "He must never know I am his father."

"But…"

"No. Let him be. Let him have his life. He will never want – everything I have will be his." Grasping her arms, he says, "Promise me." Resolution hardens his face. "Take him and go. I will not hold you to the contract – you are free to leave."

"Again you are telling me what my life should be," she says, with a sad smile, caressing his cheek. "I shall sing for you as agreed. Beyond that, I promise nothing."

His grip tightens. "You must."

"No, Erik. I will not allow you to control me – your choices have not served me well," she says, removing his hands. "I shall see you at the theater."

Pandora again offering that demon hope to taunt him. Did her words mean she would stay – would he have a family, a life with her and his son? A son…his son. A reason to live.

A/N Written with the help of a prompt on tumblr.