Yay! Long chapter! Happy early gift the for the holidays. The chapter names, by the way, are all song titles. This one is mentioned at the end of the chapter, and has a few lines featured.

Only a few hours before Christine and Raoul had departed for their walk, Erik stared blankly at the sheet of paper before him. The pen clenched in his hand tapped uselessly against the parchment as he struggled to think of something, anything. It had been a long time since he had had such a bad case of writer's block, (or in this case, songwriter's block.) Ten years, if he were to be exact. Immediately after arrival in America, he had been unable to think up even a simple hymn, with every note reminding him of Christine. For a few months following the entire ordeal beneath the Opera house, any sound that had a semblance to a song was agony. He shook his head. Erik needed to work on his music, and his music alone for the time being.

Before sitting down at the dark, mahogany desk a little over five hours ago, he had only thought up a few lines. It was, after all, the only things he could come up with. Closing his eyes, he hummed a few chords to himself, tapping along on the desk as he did so.

No, he thought, frustrated. His brows furrowed in frustration. No matter what he did, he couldn't make the notes, which sounded perfect in his head, translate onto the paper in the manner he wished. It wasn't as if the song were difficult-not at all. It was rather a simple tune, a few chords repeated, but it was the lyrics that, to him, held the bulk of the magic.

The magic, that he currently found lacking in his abilities.

Again, he murmured the words to himself. It was a slow song, not at all the norm in Coney.

"Dry eyes, roaring falls, I know I've traveled far,

So far, but this is where it ends.

Found you, right about the time that you found me,

For once I was doing something right,"

Yet he couldn't envision what would follow after the last line. As far as he was concerned, he had never had done a right thing in his life. His birth, even it seemed, was a scourge upon humanity itself. Even now, he had abducted the son of the very woman he had ever loved sleeping next door. Christine was undoubtedly worried sick about him, as he had thought repeatedly the longer he kept Gustave with him.

He knew the young boy was depressed, as well. Ever since their little episode, he had been quiet and withdrawn, preferring to remain beside Erik. The masked man liked to imagine that they both bonded over the fact that they both missed Christine terribly, although all their misery rested solely on Erik's shoulders.

Great, he thought. Another thing to add to my list of 'things I have managed to mess up in my life.'

And it was a very, very long list, at least in his mind.

Dropping the pen and resting his head in his hands, he swore to himself. It was only a simple vaudeville song, it didn't have to mirror his life, or anyone's, for that matter. He didn't have to put much work into it, just jot down a few rhyming words about love and fluff and call it a day. It wasn't even supposed to be as difficult as writing Don Juan had been-at least that he now knew the feeling of love.

Yet, he sighed, I have an awful way of showing it.

Leaning back in the chair, he glanced around his office. Gustave was (thankfully) asleep in the other room, as he had retired a little time ago and would most likely sleep in. Erik had learned over the past few days that the young boy was also rather nocturnal in nature, preferring to stay up to hours late in the night that seemed obscene for his age.

Well, look who's talking, he scoffed to himself, standing as to pace the room, silent as to not wake Gustave. As a child, Erik had also rarely, if ever, slept. Whether it be a blessing or a curse, insomnia always appeared to hound him, even from a very, very young age. Staying up late and burying himself in writing had always been usual, at least for him. He refused to use the word 'normal.'

He was anything but.

Continuing moving restlessly about the room, Erik began to feel the flood of guilt that he had begun to familiarize himself with over nearly half a week or the span of time he had been with Gustave. Every time he was not busying himself with a task of some sort, his thoughts began to trail back to Christine.

Every moment apart from Gustave must be a living hell for her, and it was all his fault.

She loved the child with all of her heart, and although she most likely knew that her son was with him (Christine was no fool, so this was a safe assumption) Christine most likely thought Gustave's safety was on the line. Where was she now? Was she searching for him with the local police? Undoubtedly she was, but Erik highly doubted that they'd get anywhere. The police were incompetent and childish, and she would gain no ground at their side. That knowledge should have comforted him or at least made him scoff...but it didn't. It just made him feel worse.

"Stop it!" he hissed, balling his hands up to his temples, shaking his head. His wig and mask were set aside on the desk. "Stop thinking and pitying her!" He had no right!

But neither did he have a right to abduct a child, either.

Sometimes he wondered if Christine had been right, over a decade ago, back by his house in the underground lake. Maybe his soul was where the true distortion lay.

Later that day he set out, cutting through shortcuts around the main and currently buzzing with activity roadways, refusing to venture into the streets. It was brighter out, and he had taken the time to leave a note explaining to Gustave that he would be back soon. Erik didn't really know himself why he had gone, but one thing was certain. He needed fresh air, a change of scenery. So, that was precisely what he was going to get.

The path down to the pier was a long one from his home, eventually weaving away from the larger and more abundantly populated parts of Coney. Waves lapped against the sand as he neared, the sound barely audible from his distance away.

The normal beaches were typically crowded, even at the current later time in the year, so he was grateful to have found the smaller, more reclusive section far away from the other parts of the amusement park. No other way would he have been able to find a little bit of peace, had he been constantly surrounded by people. Many nights had been spent on the lone wooden boardwalk that extended from the path and into the water, his shoe and sockless feet dangling over the edge, his head tilted up to stare into the stars, ignoring his reflection in the water.

Now, he deliberately looked at himself in the waves, his image distorted and constantly moving inside the water. The sun, bouncing off from above, nearly blinded him.

His dark shoes clicked against the wooden planks, the wind whipping his hair and waving his cloak in the wind. He came to a standstill at the very end, taking a few breaths. Erik reached up, taking off his mask slowly. The white porcelain was warm beneath his hand, slightly sweaty from his walk. And then, carefully, for the first time in what seemed like years, he turned his yellow gaze towards the ocean. Towards his naked face, his reflection.

A monster meets my gaze, he thought, plainly, no reaction appearing on his gruesome visage. Everything was as he had remembered; the sunken eye, his nose that was flattened at an unnatural level, the dark blue veins that were imprinted beneath his nearly paper-thin flesh.

Still, he refused to allow himself to look away. "I am a monster," he hissed to himself. "I deserve this, this is my punishment."

His deformed lips curled into a sneer, his brows furrowing together as he glowered for a minute longer, before turning away. Shakily, with less vigor than before, he replaced the white mask upon his face. He left in silence, the bottoms of his shoes branding the sand below, seemingly, the only proof he had even been there in the first place.

Back in his flat, Erik took off his now soil-encrusted shoes, leaving them sitting beside the doorstep. With a huff, he plopped down on the nearby settee, the springs squeaking underneath his weight. Rubbing the unmasked part of his face with a hand, he exhaled softly.

"Erik?" a quiet voice echoed from behind him. Erik turned, seeing Gustave standing in the hallway. The young boy was rubbing his eyes, appearing quite tired, as though he had just recently awoken. With a pang of guilt, Erik wondered if his arrival had caused the child to stir.

"Did you see my note?" the masked man asked, gesturing to the couch across from him. Gustave shook his head, shuffling over and sitting down. "I overslept, I think. I just got up," he explained.

"Most likely due to your affinity for staying up until you can hear the nightingale, isn't it?" The corner of his mouth turned up.

Gustave let out a giggle. "No! There are not even nightingales in America!"

"Rather unfortunate, isn't it? I always appreciated their song. It's a shame there are none up here, in Coney Island."

Gustave tilted his head. "Wait, Erik, have you been to France before? You can speak French, so you must have."

Erik nodded. "Indeed I have. I was originally born in France." he kept things intentionally vague, not wishing to delve into his past at the moment.

"Really?" Gustave leaned forward. "How come you never spoke of it before? What part of France were you born in?"

The older man waved him away with a hand. "I'd rather not talk about my past, little Vicomte. Instead, how about a little bit of music to wake us up?" he stood, striding over to the grand piano and lifting the lid. He let his fingers drift across a few of the keys, glancing over at Gustave, who remained stationary at his seat.

"Actually, uh, Erik, I was hoping to ask you one more thing," the boy replied. Erik stiffened, his eyes narrowing instinctively.

Taking this as approval to continue, Gustave grew a little bolder. "Yesterday- before you ran out," Erik cringed inwardly at that, "you said something about Papa, about how you let him go, just like Mother."

A short pause, and then, even quieter,

"Are you the Phantom?"

Erik slowly sat down on the piano bench, turning his face away from the young boy. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. He had been bound to find out, with all the slip-ups he'd been making recently. Trying to regain his composure, he took a few shaking breaths, before lifting his head to watch Gustave. "Maybe," he swallowed, "Maybe we should just play some music, for now. This is a pretty heavy topic for early noon."

Reluctantly, the young boy took his spot beside the older man, growing uncharacteristically silent. Gustave, having realized he was most likely correct, and Erik, being unwilling to answer such a question.

It was a very discomforting quiet that filled the air in the space before Erik's finger began to dance across the piano in the soft tune that slowly merged into Ave Maria. Requiring no music sheets, he simply poured his heart into the music, his eyes closing.

Eventually, his fingers fell away and Erik was left staring at the piano, an agonized expression on his face. Gustave played out a few notes in his place, humming along with the tune. The small boy tapped out the same melody a few times, before trying it in a few different keys. After a moment, he turned to Erik. "Do you have any empty music sheets?" he asked, almost as if he were embarrassed. "I hope you don't mind if I compose a bit, my Mama always said that I was quite good at it, and I like to practice."

"Not at all," Erik reassured, getting up to go to a brown shelf leaned up against the wall, reaching in and grasping a binder, flipping it open and removing a few pieces of plain music sheets. He handed them, and a quill, to Gustave. The boy grinned immediately upon seeing them, thanking the masked man quickly before turning back to his work.

Erik remained standing, his gloved hands limp at his side. To say Gustave was amazing was a gross understatement.

The boy was awe-inspiring in his composing skills, sounding as if he were an old master with years and years of practice up his sleeve. Certainly not a ten-year-old boy.

And yet, as Erik continued spectating the child, he was once again reminded of another young child, sitting at an old piano, quill and paper in hand, creating wondrous music thought impossible for his age.

The only difference, as it occurred to Erik, was that the other child, all those years ago, had worn a mask upon his face.

"Oh, God," he whispered. Staggering against the bookshelf full of musical scores, he inhaled sharply. The wood creaked beneath his hands as he reached out to steady himself. It felt as if a strike of fire had torn through his heart. With one hand propped up against the bookshelf and another fisted over his heart, the masked man watched Gustave with wide eyes.

Was Gustave…

Was Gustave his son?

The similarities, ones that he had previously not seen, all came flooding back. His awesome skill in composing, nocturnal nature, almost angelic singing voice. Of course, the voice could easily be from Christine, but the rest? Christine had never harbored any skill in creating music as far as he knew, and as a child, she had always been out cold by at least nine o'clock. She had never been very good at staying up late.

Erik couldn't speak for Raoul, but the fop, as he worded it nicely, most likely had no skills in music. And, if he recalled the long-ago night, precisely ten years ago, the dates matched up.

"G-Gustave," he called, his voice shaking and a tad bit hoarse. "When is your birthday?"

The young boy looked up from his seat, his blue eyes tentatively meeting Erik's. He tilted his head, a confused expression on his brow. "January 5th...why?"

The masked man ignored the statement. "And the year? Eighteen eighty-three, by any chance?"

Gustave looked even more puzzled, nodding. Erik blanched.

"Merde." The dates lined up.

"Gustave," he gasped, turning away. "I'll be back soon."

Grabbing his shoes and putting them on in two swift motions, he stood up and left promptly, swinging the door shut behind him. Gustave gulped, racing forward to tug on the knob as soon as it closed. This time, it was locked.

Finding himself alone, and this time locked in, the boy found nothing better to do except go back to his work, feeling very perplexed and worried the entire time.

XXxxXX

Relocating the Persian's dingy little hotel room outside Coney wasn't all too difficult, it was the trek there that took the better half of the hour. Midway through it began to rain, little droplets of water pattering onto the pavement, soaking his cloak, wig and virtually any article of clothing on his person. Still, he refused to head back, his hands (his gloves were tossed long ago) fisted into the drenched material of his obsidian shaded cloak, dark and a sore thumb against the rapidly darkening background.

He came to a stop at his destination, looking up at the tall building. Forsaking the entrance, he turned, and with a flourish of his half-limp cape, he grabbed one of the window ledges and hauled himself up, counting until he reached precisely the third floor. The window was unlocked. All the easier for Erik.

He slipped inside, stepping silently and managing not to make a single noise, despite his water-ridden shoes. As soon as he reached the parlor, however, all previous stealth was forgotten, and he fell back upon the settee. Moaning, he drew his hands up to cover his face. In some morbid way, it was funny that he found himself in the exact spot as yesterday.

Humming a tune softly, Nadir entered the living room with a teacup and book in his hands. Had Erik been in better shape, he would have lectured the Persian for being terribly off-key (he was) but instead, he simply cracked open an eye.

Glancing up, Nadir let out a gasp, dropping his book and nearly spilling his tea all over his white shirt. "Erik!" he hissed. "What in the name of all that is holy are you doing here?!" The other man took a few steps forward to carefully place his cup on a coaster, glaring at his masked friend all the while. He picked up his book.

Erik exhaled, removing his hands and propping himself up on his elbows. He looked absolutely dreadful. His wig was tousled and messy, mask smeared with dirt and rainwater. His eyes were golden slits, staring down at the white carpet. The floor beneath his feet was stained, as well.

"Cripes, Erik…" he murmured. "You look terrible."

All he got in return was a slight harrumph, but he managed to at least look up to meet the Persian man's gaze.

"So, want to disclose why you are once again in my room, looking-" he paused, "Nevermind. Care to explain? Does it have anything to do with the boy, again?"

Erik's closed his eyes. "Yes."

"Ah… and what did you do this time?"

"I," a deep breath followed. "I came to my senses, I suppose. Gustave is my son."

Nadir took a sip of his tea, brow furrowing. "It took you a while."

"What?" Erik's head jerked up, the unmasked part of his face turning red with fury. Within moments he had lunged forward, his hands wrapped around the other man's neck.

"You knew? And you didn't tell me?" his grip tightened, and Nadir began gasping for air, before finally drawing enough strength to turn and toss him off. As the masked man stumbled and leaned against the couch, Nadir jerked up and began rubbing his throat, muttering a string of vulgarities beneath his breath as he massaged his rapidly bruising neck.

After a tense moment of silence between the men, Erik looked up at the Persian. "I-I'm sorry, Nadir. I shouldn't have." he took a deep breath. And another. And another. "First I intrude without your consent, and then I nearly kill you. No wonder I'm… Look, I apologize. I grossly overstepped my boundaries. But still- why didn't you tell me?" his voice cracked on the last line, the former Phantom's eyes widening with an unreadable emotion.

There was a second pause as Nadir tested his ability to speak. After finding himself capable, he replied in a low voice. "Indeed you did, Erik. Overstepped your boundaries, I mean." he sighed. "Merde. Aren't you supposed to be all-knowing? I thought you knew."

"Knew?" Erik ignored the 'all-knowing' statement, clenching and unclenching his hands.

"That he was your son."

"Ah. I'm afraid you were terribly incorrect."

The Persian grabbed his overturned teacup, cringing as he examined the dark spot of liquid on the former snow-white carpeting. "If I had realized that you remained unaware of his true parentage, I would have told you. I swear it."

Erik's Adam's apple bobbed as he took that in, reaching forward to pick up the coaster and small plate, handing them wordlessly to the other man. He set all the now-sticky porcelain on the end table, moving himself up onto the couch behind him. Erik mirrored his actions, remaining quiet all the while. He seemed almost afraid to speak. The topic at hand seemed too serious and drastic, that neither really knew how to respond.

Nadir was the first to come up with something to say. "May I inquire as to how you realized?"

Erik wrinkled his nose but abided with his request. "Gustave asked for blank music sheets, and as I watched him compose, it all came to me. He is… he is so much like me, that it's almost frightening at times." The masked man paused, and his voice grew uncharacteristically soft. "That was when I figured it out."

Nadir gave him a sad smile. "And now? What are you going to do with this newfound information? It will be difficult to turn things back the way it was before. You're still his captor, in a sense."

Erik blinked, flexing his hands. "I'm well aware, Daroga. To simply put it, I say it's fair time to let him go."

My apologies on the cliffhanger, but it was the best place to cut off the chapter.

The song Indigo Home by Roo Panes does not belong to me, unfortunately. Glorious song, while I'm unsure if Erik would agree with me.