Hey friends!

Due to some personal circumstances, I am unable to currently commit to longer (novel-length) fics, which take up a vastly larger mental space than one-shots do. This is why I had to take down my most recent fic. (If you want more info, you can look in my bio or message me).

However, I hope you like this story. I thought it was a cute idea! It will only be four chapters in length. Not quite a one-shot, but definitely a short story.

partie un

The eyes of Madeleine Claudin were like two icy daggers boring painfully and sharply into Erik's back. Erik, her son, was barely eight years old but was already the bane of her existence. He'd been the bane of her existence since the moment he was born.

And there was absolutely nothing the boy could do about it.

This displeasure on the part of his mother didn't come from any naughty behavior of his, and it wasn't due to any stupidity or lack of skill that might signal that he wouldn't be able to take care of her in her old age.

The problem was that she didn't want him sticking around long enough to see her in old age - because she hated him.

She hated him for his face.

Erik wore a mask to hide a terrible deformity, one that gave him the appearance of a corpse. Discolored skin, sallow cheeks, lack of nose...it was all terribly ghastly. And Erik knew it. He knew it, and he wished he didn't know it. Because he hated himself just as much for it.

But when Erik played music, he could forget for a little while what he looked like. He could get lost in the melody of what he played, become entranced by the sounds of the piano or violin. That is, he could do so when he didn't feel his mother sitting several paces behind him, glaring at him.

They were in the church of their town, the little village of Boscherville, and the priest was teaching Erik extremely complex musical texts at the piano. The reason this bothered Madeleine so very much was because they had already been there more than an hour. Erik and the priest only met once a week, on Saturday afternoons, and the church was the only place Erik was allowed to go outside of his own house. This, he understood. The villagers were cruel, and more than once, he'd had mean words thrown his way. All out of fear, the priest told him. It was fear of the unknown.

But what was there to fear? Erik was a child. That was all. He wasn't a monster.

He wasn't.

"Father," said Madeleine, interrupting the music Erik played. Annoyance bubbled up in him like hot tar. This was the one time a week he got to be truly happy, and she wanted to take it away from him.

Even the priest, Father Mansart, barely contained his irritation. He gave the lightest of sighs through his nose and smiled tightly. "Yes, my child."

"I told the doctor I would meet him for afternoon coffee," she responded. "How much longer do you believe this all might take?"

Erik swallowed, flexing his fingers so that he didn't bang them against the keys of the piano. The doctor, the doctor, that handsome doctor. The man his mother was in love with, and would likely stick him into an asylum for, just to get rid of him and start a new life with a new husband and new, handsome children.

"You may go, Madeleine," said the priest, smile growing even tighter. "I will take Erik home when we are finished. I will feed him as well, if you decide to dine with the doctor. He will be back home before dark."

Madeleine sighed with relief. Erik and Father Mansart shared a glance. It was all an act, this sigh. Because they did this every Saturday. Madeleine would stay for an hour, grow visibly frustrated, and then the priest would suggest that she go home to rest. She would leave it up to Father Mansart to give the suggestion, rather than request it herself. Why? Because Madeleine cared about appearances. And it didn't do to appear like a mother who wanted time away from her children.

Even if the priest said it was fine.

And even if it was more than just an afternoon away from Erik she really wanted.

Erik listened to the footsteps of Madeleine as she left the church. He hated that tears sprang to the space behind his eyes, and knew that it would be a pain to clear the drops of water from under his mask without letting Father Mansart see his face.

His mother had a friend. Someone who loved her. Someone who she felt she could talk to, someone who she saw as an equal.

But Erik had no one.

He had the priest, yes, but he felt Father Mansart's kindness flowered more form pity than genuine affection. He didn't quite consider the man a friend. A teacher, yes, but not a friend.

He wanted a friend.

He wanted to be loved.