Con Amore (A Cloe's Requiem Fanfic- RPG Horror)

Con Amore

'Cloe really likes this piece,'

It didn't show, but he was forcing his will to let him perform. His form was stiff, but it was invisible to the crowd before him.

'Cloe really likes Michel's performance!'

He was sure that his audience did so as well; he can feel that in the back of his mind, a subconscious thought. It wasn't the same- it didn't give him the same odd sense of satisfaction, and it didn't make his heart swell with pride and relief. Al he could feel from his crowd was the critical fulfillment that made him feel as if he had just passed a periodical exam.

'Cloe has always, always wanted to hear this,'

He lets his eyes flutter open for a tiny bit, and he found that his concentrated frown was still on his face, and his brother's stare was piercing through him. Pierre was concerned, duly noted, but he doesn't need to be.

He doesn't need to be concerned over nothing.

'Ah ha, Ever since Michel's performance, Cloe feels fuzzy on the inside- a warm kind of feeling!'

Was she really nothing, though?

His frown deepens, and he furiously answers- no, she was not 'nothing'!

Cloe was everything.

He heard his notes grow a tiny bit forced, but he was quick to catch himself.

'La la la la, la la, la la la la, la la...'

The piece ends with one final, solemn note, and he lets his eyes close as he hears the crowd applaud his performance. He takes a bow, letting his pursed lips hide behind his golden bangs. These weren't the claps that he had wanted to hear- he wanted to hear her claps, and her heartfelt words, and to see her sweet smile.

It was childish, he thought. She won't come back and smile at him, and compliment him for a job well done, but the hopeless 'maybe' inside of him tried to tell him otherwise. He can't let go, and he doesn't want to. That was the simple truth that he had held inside of him since that day.

As the curtain fell, he tried to remind himself that she was gone, but to no avail.

~Con*Amore~

Within the walls of their humble home, Michel felt at ease. In here, there was no work, no pesky fans would come from where they were located, and best of all, there was no father there to make him and Pierre feel used.

Ever since Michel had returned to his house, his father had been furious- more so than Michel could have expected from such a laid-back person. But he hadn't expected to be disowned either- when the older man had thrown the papers in front of his and his brother's faces, they were honestly surprised. To this day, Michel had still felt remorseful, for he had dragged his brother into this mess that he had created. Pierre assures him that it was fine, but he doesn't buy it.

Although- if he had thought about it- both him and Pierre were better off without that man, because they no longer have the need to feel used, and the man would no longer have any means of making money. Serves him right, Michel had remarked that day. Pierre had found out about his father's ulterior motives, and (albeit he hadn't taken it well) he found it just to move on and forget.

The first years had been rough- for they were but 12-year old children on the streets of Paris. They could not be employed as of yet, and so they have resorted to performing on the streets, and passerby's would give them content looks and if they were lucky, a few Francs. The next year had finally come, and they settled for working at the local market. It was at this point that Michel understood the difficulty of hard work, as well as the rewards that came with it.