Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter I

I can't breathe. My chest feels heavy, my limbs lead. I will my fist to clench, to hold onto something, anything, but the dirt is packed too tightly.

My fingers tap along the ivory keys. They sink and rise like paper from a child's pop-up book. It was the same the night before, and before that. I play, she sings, they applaud, and then it's gone. Do not take me for discontent, this is what I wanted. Wasn't it? I'm a man of high standing, respected and admired. When I am buried that is all I want. But for now when the velvet curtains are closed I am alone. It's not a discomfortable feeling. Once the murmur of the audience dies and the stage is barren, I stay for a while. Another routine. Though I suppose one that's optional. Sitting on the edge the heel of my shoe hits the side of the stage like a metronome, endlessly clicking.

Something behind me, far to my left, falls leaving a echo of clattering in the otherwise empty show hall. I jump and pause my ministrations.
"Hello?" I muster into the darkness backstage. It appears one of the music stands was swept off its feet.
"Ah- forgive me for interrupting Monsieur." A man in a suit with shoulder length blonde hair haphazardly bellowing behind him comes from the shadows. Pale with rosy cheeks, like a doll. Though besides that he isn't familiar.
"It's alright don't worry yourself." I pause, "Who are you?"
"Oh I'm Jean, Jean Claude." I still have not the faintest idea who this doll-faced man is "Nice to meet you Monsieur...uh"
"Lafayette."
"Lafayette!" He adjusts his bowtie and smiles showing off his pearly teeth, "The pleasure's mine."
"Sure sure, what are you doing here Jean?" I slide my hands into my pockets attempting a casual stance. "It's rather late wouldn't, you agree?"
"I misplaced my umbrella."
"What?" I forget myself and lose my composure for a second, it hadn't rained in days.
"The stagehands are lovely here, I merely explained I had left it and they let me right in!"
"Right...Did you find it?"
"No"
"..." I try to keep my face neutral, "Would you like some help with that?"
"Oh yes please, that would be wonderful of you, thank you!" ....Wonderful...
I help Jean down the from the stage, his hands unnervingly cold. Like a corpse. Being closer now it's apparent the redness of his cheeks is artificial, mearly powder. He's very sharp in the face but his hair swoops romanticly. I wouldn't take him for the kind of man to track down an umbrella at this hour, he looks like he should be examining fine art and collecting dust not talking to me at this ungodly hour. Though I don't know what kind of man that would search for one. I look up at the rows of seats and suddenly I'm quite ready for bed.

"Do you remember where you sat, Monsieur?" I turn to him.
"Ah um...somewhere over there." He gestures to a very broad area of seats... Just what I wanted.
"Alright, you go right I'll go left?" I ask.
He nods. And there goes 3 hours of my life. Though, I suppose I would still be sitting here if he hadn't shown up. After searching though seat after seat, the sight of the red cushioning feeling cumbersome, I'm staring to belive that the umbrella was as fabricated as his rosy cheeks.
"Monsieur Jean?"
"Yes?" He says currently bent all the way over under one of the seats. "Oh! There you are."
He stands up holding an umbrella, the fabric a wishwash of red and black which mashed his suit and tie respectively.
"Thank you Monsieur Lafayette!" He shakes my hand with vigor, nearly toppling me.
"Your welcome." A slight smile lands on my face.

He left with the same air he came in with. Once I opened the door to release him into the streets he skipped away in a flurry of blonde locks and his gothic umbrella.

Chapter Text

Crushing. My bones creak and threaten giving in. But I’m not ready yet.

A mighty soprano carries herself, dress bellowing, arms agape embracing the audience. I’ve never thought of myself as meek. But right now, I am the ornamental headboard of the bed my wife insisted on. Utterly inconsequential and meager, but petty nonetheless. People like pretty things. Am I pretty? It doesn't matter. It’s been a month and the aftershow has been as empty as before Jean came.

“Darling?” A familiar alto and scraping of silver on porcelain cuts me free of my thoughts, briefly.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” I mutter, I look at her, her green eyes probing me as I stur my soup, making a little tornado of carrots, chicken, and peas. She’s always been intimidating. Still is.

“I enjoyed Mr. Larurant’s dinner the other night. You should have come.” she muses.

“Did you? That’s nice.”

“Laf.”
“Margaret.”

“What’s the matter with you today? Did you disagree with one of your little theater friends again?”

“Nothing, nothing I’m quite alright.” I raise my hands in surrender to which she rolls her eyes and sighs with the might of galeforce winds. “Margaret, what are you after? Just spit it out.”

“You never want to do or go anywhere with me, people are starting to ask me where you are.” She huffs.

“I don’t like those awful excuses for a party Mr. Larurent tosses…” I mumble.

“You hate him don’t you”

“Hate is a strong word- just… His food isn’t even half good and he only ever requests 3 songs from the band, within half an hour it gives me a headache.” If anything I tolerate that pompous idiot.

“Well I think he’s a lovely man” She needs to re-evaluate that.

“Then you should have married him.” I shrug, scooping a carrot into my mouth with my spoon.

“Oh shush.” She frowns. “You know I’m stuck with you till the end of our bloody lives.”

The room falls into silence again. That’s perfectly alright with me.

“...Mr. and Mrs. Laurent have 3 children now, their wee girl is pottering about as of late.”

“I know, I teach Samuel.” The eldest boy, nothing like his father. It would be entirely untrue of me to say I dislike children, a good few of them have more wits than most adults, but it’s something that I could never really imagine for myself. I’d rather slam my fingers under my piano cover till they bleed than partake in the act of making one. If only the myth of storks delivering babies was true. Then she could be happy, and I wouldn’t have to repeat the awareness of our wedding night. “I’m going to retire to my room dear.” I sit up, before quickly adding “Goodnight.”

I glanced at her pale face for maybe the first time since she bought up the Laurents, her freckles caked in powder to the point of inexistence. We both deserve better than this.

The rain taps against my window, soothing enough to put me to sleep if I was wrapped up tight in bed. Instead however, I am hunched over my desk with the posture of a long dead and forgotten insect. The sort you would find on your window sill or by your bathtub. I have not a reason to be up at this hour other than my own fruitless and pathetic longing to see a man I had just met once a month ago. Longing perhaps isn’t the right word, yearning? (I sound like some lovesick poet) No. Whatever, the point is I simply have a desire to meet Jean again. I wonder what he thinks of Puccini… I blow out the candle on my desk and crawl under my covers running a hand down my face, and closing my tired eyes.

Chapter Text

Tick. Tick. Tick…

I roll over, hiding myself under my covers from the cool spring breeze. It smells like rain. I suppose it’s good that Jean found his umbrella. It couldn’t hurt to lie a little longer… I bury my face in my pillow.

Tick. Tick. Tick…

Fine.

I get up quickly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and standing up. Possibly too quickly. The blood rushing to my head encompassing me with a dizzying nausea. So I sit at the foot of my bed cold, dizzy, and rubbing my sleep filled eyes. The nights are still long and the days as short as my patience. Sure the clock ticks 8 in the morning, but I don’t believe I should be expected to do anything when the sun cannot even be bothered. It’s dark. Too dark.

Tick. Tick. Tick…

Oh won’t that damned thing be quiet? I finally stand, while I’d love to gut that clock like a fish. It was my grandfather’s, and so on. I think my father would turn in his grave if I so much as looked at it funny. But- no, it’s just my head it isn’t louder.

Tick. Tick-

I don’t know what came over me. I wouldn't call myself a distractive person... Sure it's not uncommon to imagine say- tossing this clock down the stairs- but I would never do such a thing. Or at least I thought so.

Soon enough my hand is trembling. Blood oozing. Glass embedded deep. And the clock face shattered, its bronze hands bent sitting in my palm. I walk backwards hitting the wall and just about every object in my room. I can only hear my own breathing. The smell of my own blood burning my nose. “What have I…” My hands coming to the sides of my head.

Then. A light tap on my window makes me jump out of my skin. I slowly draw back my curtains and two red eyes look back at me. A hand cradling my cheek. I want to scream and cry. I probably should. But as I open my mouth to do so, I rise from my sheets panting. My breaths making my ribs ache as if I had just ran a marathon.

I run a hand through my hair. Then check my wrist. No blood. No glass. And on my bedside table sits the clock. Intact. It was all my head.

I sit up, grab the horrible thing, and shove it into a closet far far from my bedroom. Sorry Great-great-great-great grandfather, I am not a fan of being haunted. Then I climb back into bed.