Author's Note: DarlingPhantom: I think you'll quite enjoy this one.
Inadequacies
Charles woke the following morning with the light from the adjacent window spraying in his face. Quickly rolling onto his front, he buried his face in to the pillow to hide from the garish rays of light. Despite the brightness, this was the first time he woke since everything that he was not entirely at a loss of what a decent mood felt like. The day still bore the terrible weight of the loss of a life and people he knew before, but now it seemed somewhat manageable.
How though? His mood yesterday had been so turbulent throughout the entire day from conjuring a false story of his presence there with Erik, to new clothing and other errands. Then, when Erik offered him a chance for toys, he just could not. He did not want new toys, new clothes, a new life. Charles just wanted home, his home, his toys, his room, his parents. All out of reach, even if an untouched townhome that he and his parents resided while in Paris was just a neighborhood away and well within reach.
He wanted to go there, find something familiar to hold onto, but he knew he could not, for the same reasons that they made use of his middle name. People could not know where he was, and Erik seemed to think that anywhere familiar to Charles was being watched.
The proximity of being so close to the Parisian home and yet so far was jarring. Coupled with the want of familiar, he wanted his mother there to comfort him, his father to guide him. But like the Parisian house, they were out of reach, and he had yet to follow Erik's advice on grief. Not even a small utterance of good-bye to his mother.
Perhaps it had been a mistake not to tell his mother good-bye then, and now the moment was lost to him forever. As he came to realize his error, it only became more apparent that he did not deserve much of anything.
Then came the memories as the muscles of his body ached from the night before, from the tension and terrors he experienced in his nightmares. The imagery began flooding back into his head as his mind became more aware. Hellish recollections of that day, that moment, haunting his minds—until Erik came and saved him from it.
The relief, Charles realized, came in the form of music. The lullaby was the first bit of melodious sound in oppressive silence that he heard in days now. Mother had always sung, or hummed the day away without a bit of thought.
The lullaby. He sang the lullaby that he believed only his mother and himself to have known… How did Erik know it?
Of course, the fact that there was a relationship between him and his mother completely escaped the boy's mind for a moment. Charles even went as far as denying it, although it was fruitless because it would only mean that he was denying his own existence.
No, no, his mother only loved his father, Raoul, the Comte de Chagny. Not Erik. Yet… she said she loved them both as she died.
Charles frowned at the thought as he slowly rolled out of bed and dressed. From there, he slipped out into the hall, glancing to the door of Erik's room. It was not hard to guess that Erik was not on the other side of that door. He had an unmistakable presence about him, a presence that no one else could ever come close to possessing.
He wandered the second floor only to find it empty before he descended to the first. There too, it was empty. The dishes in the kitchen from the night before were put away, the curtains to the library still hung closed, and the violin in the music room vanished. The instruments that were present there helped distract his mind from why he did not like the room.
Peeking out the window he looked out into the front of the property where a fresh and thick blanket of snow covered everything, including the full gnarled canopies of the old trees. They were spaced ten to fifteen feet apart, and were it summer, they likely provided most of the yard with shade. The gravel drive that ran the length of the front property was only marked by the slight indention where snowfall initially took longer to stick to rock warmed by yesterday's sunlight. Parts of a fence appeared just beyond the tree line, wherever sunlight touched, running around the front before it vanished completely.
Where before he thought the fencing and pasture only compassed the back half of the property, Charles came to realize most all of it was fenced.
He sighed and looked away from the window, dark blue eyes landing on the well-maintained piano in the corner of the room with a polished black finish. His feet seemed to take him to it, and his hand drifted over the smooth wooden of the lid before he slid it back to reveal ebony and ivory keys. Absently, he let a finger occasionally fall heavy on one of the keys here at there, and the quiet note sounded softly so it barely made it out of the room.
With a fugitive glance around the room, Charles rested his fingers of his right hand, or the top hand as most pianists called it, on the keys. A bit louder this time, but it was still rather quiet. He played the scales with a ripple effect of his five fingers starting from the thumb to pinkie then down again, changed the key, and repeated. Getting a bit comfortable, he let his left hand, or bottom hand, play the melody.
It went against common inclination for pianists and composers alike. Most were right-handed, thus played the melody in top hand and harmony in the bottom hand. As far as he knew, it was rare for any known composer to disobey unspoken rules. Harmony always sounded flatter than melody because it only highlighted the more colorful notes, and harmony was always lower than melody. Playing inverse brought color to the lower notes and flattened the higher ones.
When he lacked a witness, Charles often went against conventional practicalities. Although the result sounded strange and even unearthly, he liked it, thus continued these naughty traits.
The instant Charles heard the back door open, he froze in position, listening. When the sound of quiet footsteps reached his ears, he quickly abandoned the piano and darted from the room. Quietly, he snuck halfway up the stairs where he turned on his heel to head back down as if it were the first time that day just as Erik appeared at the bottom, a white mask covering his face today.
By the look in his eyes and the purse of his lips, he was rather bewildered. To Charles's luck, Erik did not voice the thought. Instead, he remarked, "I was beginning to wonder if breath still possessed you."
"Huh?"
Erik merely shook his head. "I am sure you are starved. Unless you are not that fond of food…"
Charles only gave a blank stare.
With a sigh, Erik only gestured the boy to the kitchen. All too happily, Charles trotted past him and vanished inside.
Erik glanced at the adjacent room where he swore, he had heard music. He took note of the fact the piano lid was open… The piano lid that he closed that morning, did he not?
Shaking his head in dismissal, he muttered to himself, "You are getting senile."
In the kitchen, Charles slipped into his seat at the table and noted that all the surface a were glossy and smooth as if there freshly polished.
Trailing a finger over the surface of chocolate colored wood, he could not resist wondering just how are far he would slide after a running start in his newest pair of wool socks on the freshly oiled wood. A shame it was not the floor.
Back home he made things interesting for both parents and staff in his misadventures. He broke every prohibited act, be it smuggling in reptiles or sliding down the banisters. Everything Raoul and Christine forbade he did anyway, making certain they never caught him in the act.
Erik entered in his usual elegant stride that put most of the upper class to shame as far as the boy knew.
"What would you prefer to have for breakfast young de Chagny, I have eggs, bread, a bit of cheese..."
"I have a choice?"
Colorless eyes gave Charles a sideways glance from the corner of the mask's eyeholes. "For...the moment." Erik drew out those three words with trepidation.
In the life he knew, meals, among other things, were predetermined leaving him with no say in the matter. His parents were firm practitioners of 'Eat what is given to you, or starve.' Not that they ever starved him, but eating an alternate meal compared to the rest of dinner was not an option. The view was, if the child in question was hungry enough, or desperate enough for dessert, they would finish it their plate. If not, wait until the next meal. Lucky for Charles, that was not very often.
This rule was one of the lower classes, as his mother had been before marrying Raoul. She explained how for some, getting regular meals a day can be very fortunate for some families, since their finances were limited. Francs could not be afforded to waste anything to a few picky eaters.
"Charles," Erik called with a hint of impatience.
He blinked. "Uh...pain perdu?" In a pang of timidity, he sank back into his chair, hoping his request was not too much of a nuisance.
Erik acquiesced with nod and within minutes, he was dipping sliced bread into a mixture of egg, milk, vanilla, and cinnamon before placing a pair of slices into a lightly buttered wrought iron skillet on the stove. Pain perdu, otherwise known as lost loaf, a universal way to eat stale bread without gnawing on a corner.
Charles both heard and felt his stomach rumble when the delicious looking plate of fried egg battered toast with a dollop of grenache grape jam and a sprinkling of powdered sugar appeared before him. It looked better than even Armand's Restaurant presentation of the dish. His mouth watered from anticipation.
Like during the few other meals he had in the presence of his new caretaker, Erik sat across the table from him, without a plate for himself or intention of proper religious etiquette. Charles knew he was not a religious man by any means beyond a muttering of the Lord's name in sotto voce to himself as a curse. That did not send Charles astray from routine that his parents instilled in him. Dipping his head down, he closed his eyes to cite a silent prayer to himself, blessing his food and even the eccentric man who prepared it for him.
Upon finishing, he opened his eyes and started smearing the jam evenly across the bread and cutting it up with a fork and knife into bitable pieces. He tried very hard to ignore that inkling feeling of Erik's eyes upon him. He knew he was because that was what Erik did. He sat that the opposite end of the table without a meal or beverage before him, and watched, intently.
The first bite made his taste buds jump in glorious delight at the surprising burst of flavor from the morsel now melting in his mouth. This nearly made him inhale the second and third bites before he could hear Mother's voice in the back of his head saying, 'Charles, slow down!' in her usual chide. He obeyed the memory and slowed his pace to one of a proper little gentleman of society.
At the sensation of tingles running down his spine, Charles risked a glance at Erik to find him still watching. The habit unnerved him to no end. Why sit, watch, and not eat like any other common man or woman would? Why did he do it? What did he think about while enacting this most disconcerting trait?
Charles looked to his plate, took another forkful of pain perdu to distract himself from Erik, but it did not work. As soon as he swallowed, he dropped his fork to the half-finished plate and looked to his guardian in a sudden loss of tolerating patience. "Must you do that?"
Erik gave a faint start at the unexpected clang, but recovered quickly as he acknowledged him with inquisitive eyes. Perhaps he had raised his brows behind the shield of his mask. "Do what, precisely?"
"That."
Instead of speaking, Erik made a motion of waving a hand in graceful circular motion as if to beckon the words from Charles's mouth.
"You know."
"Charles," Erik sighed with a hint of exasperation. "I am many things, but a mind reader is not amongst them."
"You're watching me as I eat."
Erik tilted his head to the side, eyes giving a slow blink of consideration. "Is such a crime?"
"No, but it is unnerving to have you sit across from me, watching me without a plate or drink for yourself. Do you not eat?"
"I ate before you woke."
"You could have waited."
Erik frowned, "I rose before the sun, and you came down after nine thirty."
Charles leaned forward over his plate. "Then you could have woke me."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you needed your rest."
"Why didn't you eat supper with me last night then?"
"I do not require sustenance as you do."
Charles twisted his face, not believing a word. "I've had several meals in your presence now, and have never seen you eat."
"The last time I took a meal in the company of others was long before you were born."
"But you have me here now to remain daily, and over nine years a long time. Even a few weeks is too long."
"I have neither had the luxury, nor opportunity," Erik spoke with idle indifference.
"What about my Mother?"
As if it were somehow possible, Erik's back went straighter at the mention of her. "I cooked for her, and she ate while I kept her company."
"Did you eat with her? Did you talk...?"
Erik shook his head, "Occasionally we spoke while she ate, which was not often. She detested my presence much of the time; at least up until your conception." He raised his hand to silence any questions that sprung to mind. "I will speak no further on that."
Charles swallowed the lump in his throat. It seemed like such a queer relationship. Little talk? Mother disliking him? Then why did he exist here now? Why did they interact so fondly in those last few...?
He shook his head to his self. "Why sit and watch me now?"
"It would be rude otherwise."
"It's rude now! You do not talk or read, or in the very least dine with me? It's weird to eat and have your every move watched like you are some strange new exhibit."
"We are speaking now."
"That's not..." Charles shook his head with a groan, and planted his face in his hands. "But this isn't pleasant talk...common talk."
"Very well, I shall leave you to yourself since you apparently detest my company as well." Erik pushed himself from his seat. "Wash your plate when you are finished." Then he was gone out the back door, leaving a stunned Charles in his wake.
The boy quickly recovered. "I do not detest your company!" he shouted after him even though the door separated them. "I detest your silence," the last was a murmur to himself. He pushed the delicious meal away, a pang of guilt replacing his appetite.
Author's Note: What does the French Call French Toast? Yeah, that was Fun trip into internet searches years ago(This story was originally posted 12 or so years ago, was deleted and largely overhauled. It is with renewed interest that I went working on overhauling and completing this. This IS a Work-In-Progress
