"Eli," Christine laughed, "Gustaves gone, come out."

"He didn't see me did he?" Eli asked in a timid shaky voice peeking his head around the corner.

"No dear, and even if he had, he loves you, he would never be sorry to see you."

Elis' eyes darted around the room. "And Father?"

"He'll be back momentarily dear, he was just helping Ilios into the boat. Are you sure you don't want to go with them?"

Eli buried his face into his mother's lap and shook his head.

It had been a year and yet the pain was still fresh in his little mind.

Gustave's warning still haunted his every movement. 

The mistake he made- the fire he had-

"Whatever you do Eli, don't touch the candles alright, I have to see Autumn out. I'll be right back."

He couldn't help it, they were so bright, so beautiful, so full of life.

He hadn't meant to hurt anyone, he hadn't meant to.

'Nights?" he questioned, pointing to the book that rested on the piano.

"A Midsummer Nights dear," Christine nodded, "By Shakespeare. My poor little boy, I know you must have the words hidden away in there."

Eli sighed, he hoped he did. He thought he did. Or so his mother told him. He thought more than his sister, he knew that much. Yet there seemed so much to think that there was very little to say. he was happiest with his father when he could say nothing at all and be understood perfectly.

But it had been his silence that had started the trouble in the first place. 

His brother had taken the blame, claiming he had been careless with the lamp again. He had been scaring some of the Ballet girls by the sets he claimed, had dropped the lamp and caught the whole thing on fire. How Father had yelled, how Gustave had cried.

Eli cowered at the very thought, how he had longed to call out, scream to his father, "It was me it was all me. I started the fire."

But no words came. Never when he needed them and always when he didn't want them.

Erik came out, fixing his mask on his face and fixing his leather gloves onto his calloused hands.

Eli loved to watch him. He was their father in those moments together, but alone he stood apart, mysterious, precise, dangerous.

Eli preferred to watch him at night when the candles lit his mask into a face from a dream and carried him far away on some tide of music Eli longed to follow.

All his family boasted of music, sought after it, prided themselves in it. But Eli had never heard it, loved it he had, but felt it? Never.

He hadn't revealed such revelations to his mother, nor told her how he learned to read plenty... but all would come with time he supposed.

How he loved to read, hours on hours alone in his room were spent pouring over picture books and music scores and plays and operas. Of course when either of his loving parents approached he would pretend to draw on them or laugh as their pages crinkled when he turned them.

He didn't want to be different.

So far, he hadn't a mirror in the world to notice, not a thought of his face that put it apart from any other face. Christine and Erik had agreed to give him a normal childhood they would spare him of that early pain, best as they could. And Eli- though occasionally catching a glimpse of his reflection in the waters of the lake, thought himself no different in looks than his sister or older brother. 

But that day, Christine supposed, along with his words, would soon approach.

-----------

The day crept onward and the first act of Midsummer nights was finished being read by his mother just as soon as the last.

How he wished to be like Puck, carefree, not shackled by the bounds of his doubts and mind.

"Thank you mother," he whispered, giving a soft kiss to her cheek and running off to play alone.

He knew Gustave had taken the blame of his own free will and yet Eli couldn't help but feel as if there was a begrudging resentment in Gustave forever even considering him his brother. It had cost him his job, his father's trust, and all for what? His not getting yelled at?

Eli walked the halls slowly, tracing his hand across every doorframe and cranny. He hopped on his bed and jumped for a while, trying to count to himself how many seconds he could get in the air. To fly would be such a pleasure, how he wished to invent a flying machine that would take him far above Paris.

But he loved the old opera house. He often, when his parents laid him down to rest, found his way into their box and watched the late night operas with great interest and passion. 

Sitting alone on the edge of box five he would hang his legs over the edge and look out at the rows of seats, enjoying the silence and grand architecture of it all. 

-----------

One day, stumbling upon one of Erik's old Pianos in the back hidden compartment of his nursery, Eli couldn't help but try to play.

He sat down, fixed the buttons on his little vest and touched gingerly the keys.

At first, he played slowly, making sure every note was perfectly synchronized and organized. But soon he disregarded the original markings and played from the heart, without tempo or pace.

He had even furthermore, played through Beethoven's moonlight Sonata several times before Erik came in to check on him and stood stunned in the doorway.

"Brava!" Erik whispered.

Eli turned in a sudden fright and jumped off the piano seat, eyes like animals when it knows its been cornered.

"You play very well," Erik beamed with a laugh, "Though I don't remember, little phantom, ever teaching you to play a note."

Eli shifted uncomfortably and looked down in shame.

"Come boy," Erik said raising an eyebrow, "We both know you have words enough in there."

Erik sat down on the bed and the two stared at each other without words for quite some time before Eli burst into tears and ran into his father's arms.

"There, there you poor child," Erik said softly petting the boy's hair, "What nightmares you must have to scare such talent into darkness."

Erik would not have been able to prepare himself for what happened next.

"Oh father," Eli sobbed, his voice perfectly coherent were it not for the sniffles and cries that broke up his words, "It was my fault, the fire. Gustave only 'tected me. I've done such wicked things. I stole the books from Andres library, took box five and went and saw all the Operas since June. Even the one's mother would have been shamed to see, though they were awful good. I pulled Ilios hair even when she thought it got snagged in the door. I spilled the coffee on your manuscript, and I broke the china plate mother loved. I steal your mask sometimes, you don't misplace it. I want to see your face. I want to see you, I don't want to lose you. You must hate me I know. I never talk how mother wants me to- I don't play music like Gustave- Hate me, hate me, hate me. Don't leave me please don't leave me, Father."

Erik savored every word, listening for the first time to his son's voice, knowing its shape and pitch. It almost brought him to tears, how much was bottled up and tormenting his little son's mind. Eli's voice was a melody in itself. 

"Eli for heaven's sake, I couldn't hate you! It would be impossible! Come, child, dry your tears." Erik laughed. "Such many words! How you've worried your mother!"

Eli cried harder and clutched to the lining of his father's shirt with two small red fists.

"I can't talk around her." Eli sobbed through hyperventilating breaths. "It scares me. How it scares me."

"Silence," Erik affirmed with a nod, "Forget these wide-eyed fears. I'm here nothing will harm you, put those thoughts far behind you."

Elis breathing slowed steadily, a few gasps and tired stifled tears interceding momentarily until his father had rocked him into a steady sleep.

Slowly Erik but the small child down took off his shoes and placed him gently into the bed.

As Erik shut the door behind him he couldn't help sigh with relief and hum happily all the way back to the parlor. 

"Erik?" Christine laughed, "What on earth? I haven't heard you hum that song in ages."

"Who knows?" Erik laughed heartily, his shoulders shaking as he wheezed, "It's a new done, I may sing it every day evermore."

He picked Christine up into his arms and swung her about in breathless euphoria.

"Say you'll share with me one love one lifetime!" he sang out loudly.

"Erik really please!" Christine blushed with a laugh. What had possessed him? 

She had never seen him like this in all their marriage. Always had his happiness been quiet, humble, and when vocal; soft.

"I'm happy Christine." Erik beamed, "I can't ever remember being happier."

"What has Eli said to you?" Christine joked, knowing full well her son never spoke more than two words.

Erik bit his lip.

He decided to side with his son.

"Nothing dear," he lied clearing his throat, "You know I can't get a word out of him."

"Then what is it that has you so happy?" Christine laughed, curiosity filling her soul.

"Fire!" Erik shouted with hearty laughter, his voice echoing and booming throughout the cavern, "Fire and Manuscripts and opera boxes."

He took Christine by the shoulders, leaving her to wonder at his strange inconsistency.

"Has he gone mad?" she marveled to herself.

"And China plates and masks." He looked at her with such a genuine smile, such bliss that she wished to hold onto it forever. "Oh Christine. I have never loved this mask. But now I love it more than anything else, for little hands are to steal it away and make me think I've gone mad. Secrets that plague those little hands: that tell them to take because the heart says they must."

"Erik you've gone mad, What nonsense you speak." Christine scolded taking her seat.

She kissed his cheek gingerly, working her way to his lips, and just as he was to kiss her whispered with delight, "Oh Erik what wonderful nonsense."

"No," Erik laughed breathlessly, "What a wonderful life I lead."

What a wonderful complicated beautiful life indeed.