He is the child that never should've existed.
Christine knows that now, after ten years of waiting, watching, suspecting. It is the truth, after all, and Christine's father always told her to be honest—with others, but especially yourself.
Look with your heart,
And not with your eyes...
Still, it is many years before Christine takes her own advice.
She looks.
He is five years old and already looks so much like his father.
Raoul is his father, of course. Christine was never one of those girls in the opera, the ones who snuck off with one boy and returned, giggling madly, to sneak off with another. No scandal for Christine, thank you very much.
Christine had never thought she would have a child, suddenly have someone else to look out for. The very prospect is frightening. But now—as she looks at the bright beam of sunshine that Gustave is—Christine feels something warm inside her. Something wonderful and happy.
That is the effect her son has on people.
He is small for his age, slender and fair-skinned, with soft, brown hair that hangs in his face. His eyes are dark, the darkest eyes Christine has ever seen. He is looking at a flower at the moment, concentrating on picking off the petals.
One. By. One.
"Gustave, love," Christine begins, but loses courage halfway through. Gustave lets the petal-less flower drop, and looks up at her.
He does not know how speak yet. It worries Christine, but she doesn't let it show.
Look with your heart. The heart always knows.
"Would you like to go home?" she asks.
Gustave shakes his head, then lays on his back, his face vanishing in the sea of blue and red wildflowers. He loves the country; Christine feels that little ache in her heart as she thinks of how rarely he gets to enjoy it. Still, it is getting late.
"Gustave," she says, and reaches to touch his hand. He jerks away from her, and gives her a look of distrust.
No thank you, I'm perfectly happy on my own.
And Christine wonders...
She is not the one that buys the piano. Raoul drags it into the house, and she watches him hesitantly. Bad memories drift along with the music that plays in Christine's head, and she forces them away. Raoul only wants her affection; he tells her she can practice her singing with the instrument.
The piano sits abandoned for several weeks. Raoul has no idea what to do with it; Christine is afraid to touch its ivory.
Then one day, something happens.
The music has been following her, following her constantly. She does not listen to it. She has learned to avoid its seductive tones.
Until she is forced to hear.
Gustave has wandered there, found the abandoned piano bench. He lifts the lid (how does he know to do that?) and brushes his fingers along the keys.
Then slams.
The burst of noise seems to startle him. He presses again, more gently, more quietly.
C...
He looks up then, sees Christine watching him from the doorway, stands up and smiles sadly.
As if he regrets that he cannot say more with this wonderful instrument.
The next day, he plays again.
C. D. E. F. G-G
Christine listens to him from upstairs, listens to each careful note, and smiles faintly. He has inherited none of the Phantom's strange magic from her. The Phantom treats pianos as old friends; Gustave seems hesitant or perhaps even scared.
Little does Christine realise that friends have to become friends in the first place.
Several days go by and the piano is left alone.
The next day Christine stands at the balcony of their house (far too big of a house for three people, Raoul always needed so much more than she did) and watches Gustave. She notices how Gustave checks slyly to make sure no one is around—but as he neglects to look up, and therefore does not see her.
Then Gustave places his hands on the keys and plays.
D, D-E E, D-D, D-A...
Christine recognises the melody, of course, for someone sang it to her long ago.
And now her heart sings along.
I am your angel of music,
Come to me, angel of music...
There is no possible way for him to know that song. Christine has never hummed it, never tapped out its melody with her fingernails one quiet night, never sang under her breath, even when she thought he was asleep.
Thank goodness Raoul is working.
Gustave switches to a different melody.
The Phantom of the Opera is there,
Inside my mind...
Christine goes running down the stairs, grabs Gustave by the wrist, pulls him away from the piano, slams the lid shut and holds him close.
Then he looks at her and speaks. Not one word. Never just one.
"Mother, I can play piano, and it's beautiful."
Christine shudders. "Oh Gustave, never a word of this to your father. Please."
He nods solemnly, though his dark eyes are shining.
"Gustave...how did you learn those songs?"
He slowly raises his hand and puts it on his heart. "I could hear it. So I played it."
"You mean in your head?" Christine asks slowly.
He nods, and then, very softly, smiles. A wide, Cheshire smile. "Yes. Inside my mind."
Gustave clings on to her on the day he is supposed to start school. Such a display of nervousness is not normal for him, but at least Christine can understand. At least it is completely normal.
"Good luck, Gustave," Christine whispers to him. He gives her his usual, faint smile, that always has that endearing bit of hope in it. "Don't forget your lunch."
"Can't I stay home with you?" he whispers back, and Christine automatically fills in and Father. Not that his father would be around, anyway; Raoul is getting home later and later and he always smells suspiciously of alcohol.
"You have to go to school, and learn, so you'll be smarter than your mother," she says teasingly, and taps his nose with one finger. He giggles, then leans in closer and says in a hushed voice, "Mother, I can still hear the music."
"I can too," she tells him. Because she always can. Perhaps it's just a side effect of being an opera singer. "Now, you have to go or you'll be late."
He nods, lets go, and begins to run down the sidewalk, coat flaring out behind him, boots tapping happily across the pavement.
That evening, they call her in to the school.
"Madame Daaé," the headmaster begins.
Christine gives him a look that she hopes is the most cold, indifferent look he has ever received in his life. He ignores it, choosing to focus on Gustave. "Madame Daaé, thank you for coming here today. Is your husband not able to attend?"
"He's working," Christine tells him. "Has Gustave done something wrong?"
"Several of the other students were trying to play with him, and he began to shout things at them," the Headmaster said bluntly. "He then proceeded to terrify them with a strange...feat of gymnastics."
"Gymnastics?" Christine almost laughs. "You mean, he scared them with his flexibility?"
"The students seem to have been so scared by whatever he did," the Headmaster continues hotly, "that they continue to tell a fable."
"And what is this fable?" Christine asks, her voice strangely sharp.
"Madame Daaé, whatever your son did interfered with their minds so much that the students tell me he leapt through a mirror." The Headmaster leans back in his chair as though the matter is settled.
"A mirror. They say he leapt through a mirror." Christine whips her head around to face Gustave. "Did you leap through a mirror, Gustave?"
Gustave looks at her, eyes wide, and shakes his head.
"Well, then, I will be heading home, and Gustave will come with me." Christine stands, takes Gustave's hand, and nods to the Headmaster. "Thank you for your time."
"Madame Daaé," he begins, but she is already sweeping out and closing the door behind her.
As soon as they are out of the school she whirls to Gustave. "Gustave, answer me right now and tell me the truth, no matter how strange. What happened."
"They were chasing me," Gustave says chokingly. "I was scared."
"Were they teasing you?"
He nods, but seems reluctant to say more.
"Gustave, why were they teasing you?"
"Because I got in trouble in music class," he says, sniffling. "The t-teacher asked us q-questions, and I knew all the a-answers, and he thought I was ch-cheating. He said the questions were too difficult for me to know the answers—but it was really quite easy, it was only about chords and notes relating to each other."
"Gustave, what did he do to you?" Christine asks, and she dreads the answer, for she knows how schools work.
Gustave holds up his palm, saying nothing. There is a long, angry welt across it, done by some sort of whip. It has turned his entire hand red.
"And then the boys began to chase me, after class, and I couldn't do anything except run, so I did. But they kept chasing me, and they chased me into the teacher's staff room, but there were no teachers there, and they cornered me against the wall, and—I just turned and there was this huge mirror, and I pushed one out of the way and I leapt at the mirror. Mother, have I gone crazy?"
Christine shakes her head slowly. This cannot be happening.
"And then it was all very cold, like water all around me, and I couldn't breathe, and I tried to find an exit, and then I fell out of another mirror and crashed onto the floor in the restroom, and then the Headmaster found me. Mother, I'm scared," he finishes hopelessly.
Christine takes him by the wrists—being careful not to jolt the hurt one—kneels down, and stares into his eyes. "Listen to me, Gustave. Do you remember what I told you before?"
"About not telling Father that I can do strange things?"
Christine nods. She hates herself for asking this of him. But what choice does she have? It doesn't matter that she will be ruined if the truth gets out. She deserves it. But Raoul will not care for a child that isn't his...
"But Mother, what does it mean?"
"Gustave, don't get frustrated, please. I don't know what it means. But...you can do things...and they might be good things, or bad things. This is beyond just Father. I want you to promise that you won't use your powers to hurt people in any way."
She thinks of the huge, glittering crystal chandelier in their main hall (a little too gaudy, but Raoul likes it) and imagines it crashing to the floor, a wave of glittery dust soaring in every direction. This nightmare has followed her now, and she will take every precaution to make sure Gustave doesn't become...him.
But Gustave is so full of life, so joyful, happy, smiling, sparkling, that how could he ever be related to him?
"And anyways," she says, snapping out of her thoughts, "You aren't going back to that school. We're taking you somewhere else."
He beams. "Yay!"
Christine can't help but smile. "Come on, I'll race you home."