Homeward Bound
Chapter Six: Home, Where My Love Lies Waiting
Guess what? This ISN'T the last chapter! *laughs diabolically* I place all the blame on the plot bunny. He followed me to Florida, and I was on the Haunted House ride at Disney when suddenly I came up with another ending. (The ride had nothing to do with it, that was just where I happened to be.) So, even though this could be a perfectly complete ending, there will be one...and ONLY one *glares at the plot bunny* more chapter on the way.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. If you sue me, I will squirt you with my aloe sunburn gel, which kind of stings if you get it in your eyes. Do not test me.
Bon voyage = Have a good trip
mon fil = my son (that one you ought to remember from past chapters)
~~
Homeward Bound
Chapter Six: Home, Where My Love Lies Waiting
Christian got up and closed the cover on the piano keys. After a second's thought, he grabbed the sheet music before throwing the cloth back over the piano.
He picked up the bottle of absinthe and looked at the remaining liquid. He knew that he'd been teetering on the edge of full-blown drunk ten minutes ago, but suddenly he was completely sober. His thoughts had stopped drifting in and out of clarity; usually after that much absinthe, they didn't stop doing that until the next morning. Had he somehow shocked himself sober? It was something to think about, but not right now. Now, there were more important things to do.
There was only a little bit left in the bottle. It wasn't really even worth putting it back anymore...He could drink the rest, but then he didn't really need it. Maybe he'd take it with him, and drink the rest with Toulouse; there was probably enough left for two glasses.
Music and bottle in hand, he climbed the stairs up to his room and surveyed the area briefly. Typewriter was starting to gather dust on his desk. Clothes hadn't been washed, but he could wash them in Paris just as well as in England. He pulled his suitcase out from under the bed and started throwing clothes into it. There was a four a.m. train to the coast, a six-thirty ferry across the Channel, and from that point he could catch another train to Paris and then maybe a cab to the stairs of Montmartre. He could be there by early afternoon.
Well, he could be there if he left sometime in the next half-hour. Which meant that he'd either have to wake everyone up and inform them he was leaving, or he could just go, maybe leave a note so his mother wouldn't be too worried.
There was no contest, really. He quickly wrote out two similar notes, one in English to his father, and one to his mother in French. The note to his father merely said that Christian had made up his mind, and that he didn't wish to burden the family any longer with a good-for-nothing son. (Oh, it had hurt him to write that...it was demeaning, even if it was a lie.)
The note to his mother went into considerably more detail, explaining that Christian really did love his father, but that it was clear the two of them could not live sanely in the same house. That, and he'd finally realized that London was not where he was meant to be. He knew that Margaret had meant for him to go back from the beginning: not because she didn't want him to stay in England, but because she'd known he truly belonged in Paris. He thanked her for the insight he couldn't have found alone, and left the address of the boarding house he'd stayed in before. If he couldn't get a room there, he added, he'd send her a letter with his new address.
His clothes were packed. He laid the bottle in with them, set the music down inside, and tossed Les Miserables in on top of everything. It was something to do on the train, at least. He latched the suitcase, picked it up, grabbed the typewriter case and the letters, and started downstairs.
He tripped on the rug at the top. For an instant he was certain he would tumble down the stairs, and could only pray that he didn't break his neck on the way. He dropped the suitcase, caught hold of the banister, and any danger of immediate death had passed. He swore at himself -- since when had he ever been so uncoordinated?
Then the suitcase fell off the stair on which it had, unbeknownst to Christian, been teetering. He could only wince as it bounced down the steps, each impact seemingly as loud as a bomb. It hit the squeaking stair (the creak wasn't even audible through the noise of the collision) and finally came to a stop at the bottom, where the resulting noise was loud enough to rattle the windows.
"Oh, shit," he muttered, looking back up the hall. A floorboard creaked in his parents' room -- there was no way they could have missed that. Robert slept like a rock, though, and probably hadn't heard anything. Christian made his way down the stairs and crouched down to examine the suitcase. It was still in one piece, remarkably undamaged by its fall.
Whether Christian would be in such good condition after his father was done with him would be another story. He tossed the two notes into the wastebasket -- it looked like he'd be explaining in person now.
His parents were standing at the top of the steps now, his mother looking concerned, his father only angry.
"You didn't fall?" Margaret asked breathlessly.
"No, I dropped the suitcase."
His father glared down at him. "Leaving? At this hour? Let me guess...you weren't man enough to tell us you were going back."
Christian sighed. "No, I just didn't want to wake anyone up. I've been enough trouble already, and I didn't want to cause any more. But yes, I am going back to Paris. I can catch an early train and be there by afternoon."
Margaret appeared to accept this instantly. She descended the stairs swiftly and rummaged around in the hall desk. "Here: it ought to be enough for the train and ferry, and a little extra for food."
Christian shook his head. "No, Mother, I can't take that."
"Damn right you can't, boy!" Peter thundered, coming down to join them in the foyer. "You won't need the money, because you're staying here!"
Christian had taken all he could, and now he was going to stand up for himself. "Christ, Father, I spent the first twenty-three years of my life living the way you wanted me to, and that's enough! I'm sorry you didn't have the courage to stand up to your father and do what you wanted, but I do, and I *am* going back to Paris tonight."
Peter was stunned, but only momentarily. "Y-your mother..."
"...is right there. If she has a protest she is quite capable of speaking for herself. Don't try to use her to keep me here!"
"Peter, he's right," Margaret said patiently. "The boy belongs where he's happy, and with you shouting at him all the time, it's no wonder he's not happy here! He's not a child, and he's perfectly capable of making his own decisions. Let him grow up."
Peter just stood there glaring for a moment. "You'll be back."
Christian shrugged. "If I was welcome, then yes, I'd visit on occasion." He knew that his father had meant he'd come back in shame, and had deliberately misinterpreted it. Peter was glaring bullets at him, but Christian refused to back down.
Margaret pressed a roll of banknotes into Christian's hand. "Take it, Christian. For me. I'd like to know that you won't starve to death."
He sighed. "All right, Mother, I'll take it."
She kissed him quickly on each cheek. "I believe you have a train to catch."
He smiled and hugged her. "Thank you for everything. I'll send you my address when I get to Montmartre, in case you need it, all right?"
She nodded, her eyes sparkling. A tear had escaped and was trailing down her cheek.
"Don't do that," Christian whispered gently. "You'll change my mind."
She wiped at her eyes and gave him a light push in the direction of the door. "Oh, go on, or you'll miss the train."
Christian turned to his father and held out his hand, hoping for perhaps a truce. "Sir?"
Peter didn't move, and Christian turned away. It was nothing more than he'd expected, but he'd hoped...
He took his coat and hat from the stand by the door and put them on quickly, not wanting to see the anger that seemed to be permanently etched into his father's face. He picked up the typewriter and suitcase without looking in his father's direction.
Christian stepped out onto the porch. A veil of clouds had cloaked the stars; it would be a long walk to the train station, but he could make it. He hoped it wouldn't snow before dawn. He started down the porch steps and onto the walkway.
Behind him, the door opened. "Christian!"
He stopped. Was Peter going to make one last attempt to keep him here? Christian turned around.
"Take the number seventeen train to the ferry -- it's fastest."
Peter wasn't smiling, but it was more of a blessing than Christian could have hoped for. His father was too stubborn to actually apologize; the advice had been extended as a peace offering, and Christian wasn't about to turn it down.
"Thank you," he said quietly, his breath turning into fog in the cold night.
And then his father did smile, grudgingly, for just an instant. "Bon voyage, mon fil."
Chapter Six: Home, Where My Love Lies Waiting
Guess what? This ISN'T the last chapter! *laughs diabolically* I place all the blame on the plot bunny. He followed me to Florida, and I was on the Haunted House ride at Disney when suddenly I came up with another ending. (The ride had nothing to do with it, that was just where I happened to be.) So, even though this could be a perfectly complete ending, there will be one...and ONLY one *glares at the plot bunny* more chapter on the way.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. If you sue me, I will squirt you with my aloe sunburn gel, which kind of stings if you get it in your eyes. Do not test me.
Bon voyage = Have a good trip
mon fil = my son (that one you ought to remember from past chapters)
~~
Homeward Bound
Chapter Six: Home, Where My Love Lies Waiting
Christian got up and closed the cover on the piano keys. After a second's thought, he grabbed the sheet music before throwing the cloth back over the piano.
He picked up the bottle of absinthe and looked at the remaining liquid. He knew that he'd been teetering on the edge of full-blown drunk ten minutes ago, but suddenly he was completely sober. His thoughts had stopped drifting in and out of clarity; usually after that much absinthe, they didn't stop doing that until the next morning. Had he somehow shocked himself sober? It was something to think about, but not right now. Now, there were more important things to do.
There was only a little bit left in the bottle. It wasn't really even worth putting it back anymore...He could drink the rest, but then he didn't really need it. Maybe he'd take it with him, and drink the rest with Toulouse; there was probably enough left for two glasses.
Music and bottle in hand, he climbed the stairs up to his room and surveyed the area briefly. Typewriter was starting to gather dust on his desk. Clothes hadn't been washed, but he could wash them in Paris just as well as in England. He pulled his suitcase out from under the bed and started throwing clothes into it. There was a four a.m. train to the coast, a six-thirty ferry across the Channel, and from that point he could catch another train to Paris and then maybe a cab to the stairs of Montmartre. He could be there by early afternoon.
Well, he could be there if he left sometime in the next half-hour. Which meant that he'd either have to wake everyone up and inform them he was leaving, or he could just go, maybe leave a note so his mother wouldn't be too worried.
There was no contest, really. He quickly wrote out two similar notes, one in English to his father, and one to his mother in French. The note to his father merely said that Christian had made up his mind, and that he didn't wish to burden the family any longer with a good-for-nothing son. (Oh, it had hurt him to write that...it was demeaning, even if it was a lie.)
The note to his mother went into considerably more detail, explaining that Christian really did love his father, but that it was clear the two of them could not live sanely in the same house. That, and he'd finally realized that London was not where he was meant to be. He knew that Margaret had meant for him to go back from the beginning: not because she didn't want him to stay in England, but because she'd known he truly belonged in Paris. He thanked her for the insight he couldn't have found alone, and left the address of the boarding house he'd stayed in before. If he couldn't get a room there, he added, he'd send her a letter with his new address.
His clothes were packed. He laid the bottle in with them, set the music down inside, and tossed Les Miserables in on top of everything. It was something to do on the train, at least. He latched the suitcase, picked it up, grabbed the typewriter case and the letters, and started downstairs.
He tripped on the rug at the top. For an instant he was certain he would tumble down the stairs, and could only pray that he didn't break his neck on the way. He dropped the suitcase, caught hold of the banister, and any danger of immediate death had passed. He swore at himself -- since when had he ever been so uncoordinated?
Then the suitcase fell off the stair on which it had, unbeknownst to Christian, been teetering. He could only wince as it bounced down the steps, each impact seemingly as loud as a bomb. It hit the squeaking stair (the creak wasn't even audible through the noise of the collision) and finally came to a stop at the bottom, where the resulting noise was loud enough to rattle the windows.
"Oh, shit," he muttered, looking back up the hall. A floorboard creaked in his parents' room -- there was no way they could have missed that. Robert slept like a rock, though, and probably hadn't heard anything. Christian made his way down the stairs and crouched down to examine the suitcase. It was still in one piece, remarkably undamaged by its fall.
Whether Christian would be in such good condition after his father was done with him would be another story. He tossed the two notes into the wastebasket -- it looked like he'd be explaining in person now.
His parents were standing at the top of the steps now, his mother looking concerned, his father only angry.
"You didn't fall?" Margaret asked breathlessly.
"No, I dropped the suitcase."
His father glared down at him. "Leaving? At this hour? Let me guess...you weren't man enough to tell us you were going back."
Christian sighed. "No, I just didn't want to wake anyone up. I've been enough trouble already, and I didn't want to cause any more. But yes, I am going back to Paris. I can catch an early train and be there by afternoon."
Margaret appeared to accept this instantly. She descended the stairs swiftly and rummaged around in the hall desk. "Here: it ought to be enough for the train and ferry, and a little extra for food."
Christian shook his head. "No, Mother, I can't take that."
"Damn right you can't, boy!" Peter thundered, coming down to join them in the foyer. "You won't need the money, because you're staying here!"
Christian had taken all he could, and now he was going to stand up for himself. "Christ, Father, I spent the first twenty-three years of my life living the way you wanted me to, and that's enough! I'm sorry you didn't have the courage to stand up to your father and do what you wanted, but I do, and I *am* going back to Paris tonight."
Peter was stunned, but only momentarily. "Y-your mother..."
"...is right there. If she has a protest she is quite capable of speaking for herself. Don't try to use her to keep me here!"
"Peter, he's right," Margaret said patiently. "The boy belongs where he's happy, and with you shouting at him all the time, it's no wonder he's not happy here! He's not a child, and he's perfectly capable of making his own decisions. Let him grow up."
Peter just stood there glaring for a moment. "You'll be back."
Christian shrugged. "If I was welcome, then yes, I'd visit on occasion." He knew that his father had meant he'd come back in shame, and had deliberately misinterpreted it. Peter was glaring bullets at him, but Christian refused to back down.
Margaret pressed a roll of banknotes into Christian's hand. "Take it, Christian. For me. I'd like to know that you won't starve to death."
He sighed. "All right, Mother, I'll take it."
She kissed him quickly on each cheek. "I believe you have a train to catch."
He smiled and hugged her. "Thank you for everything. I'll send you my address when I get to Montmartre, in case you need it, all right?"
She nodded, her eyes sparkling. A tear had escaped and was trailing down her cheek.
"Don't do that," Christian whispered gently. "You'll change my mind."
She wiped at her eyes and gave him a light push in the direction of the door. "Oh, go on, or you'll miss the train."
Christian turned to his father and held out his hand, hoping for perhaps a truce. "Sir?"
Peter didn't move, and Christian turned away. It was nothing more than he'd expected, but he'd hoped...
He took his coat and hat from the stand by the door and put them on quickly, not wanting to see the anger that seemed to be permanently etched into his father's face. He picked up the typewriter and suitcase without looking in his father's direction.
Christian stepped out onto the porch. A veil of clouds had cloaked the stars; it would be a long walk to the train station, but he could make it. He hoped it wouldn't snow before dawn. He started down the porch steps and onto the walkway.
Behind him, the door opened. "Christian!"
He stopped. Was Peter going to make one last attempt to keep him here? Christian turned around.
"Take the number seventeen train to the ferry -- it's fastest."
Peter wasn't smiling, but it was more of a blessing than Christian could have hoped for. His father was too stubborn to actually apologize; the advice had been extended as a peace offering, and Christian wasn't about to turn it down.
"Thank you," he said quietly, his breath turning into fog in the cold night.
And then his father did smile, grudgingly, for just an instant. "Bon voyage, mon fil."