Chapter Text
Charles
It was one of his first nights in his own bedroom, since he was already six years old and his brother Lorenzo was already fed up with having to share a room with his annoying little brother.
Maman read him one of his favourite fairy tales, Beauty and the Beast. Charles was always mesmerised by the fairytale, gasping at the beast dying and smiling when he turned into a prince every time he heard the story, making his mom smile softly, kiss him on the cheek, and wish him a good night.
Charles curled up in his bed, a red blanket tugged firmly around his little body. He was still not quite used to sleeping alone – each shadow that fell from the window looked like a monster, the quiet hum from the street turned into the singing of a witch, and he hid under the blanket every time a louder car passed by.
But he was a big boy now, so asking Lorenzo to take him back into his room or complaining to his parents, who spent their weekends getting his new room ready, wasn’t a solution.
The boy closed his eyes and tried to sleep, replaying the fairytale in his mind, in his mother's voice, again and again until he finally fell asleep.
Charles stirred at a loud noise, a harsh male voice screaming something in a language he had never heard before, his eyes teary, his cheek stinging.
“Jij waardeloze sukkel, zie je wel wat je hebt aangericht?!” an angry voice screamed, making Charles shrink into himself. He didn’t know what was happening, but he did know that the words were directed towards him.
Charles opened his eyes and saw a big man hovering above him, and though his face was blurry from the tears in his eyes, he could clearly see piercing blue, cold eyes that made him shiver even more than he already was.
He heard a woman's voice in the background: he also couldn't understand a word she was saying, but it sounded like she was praying or begging, or crying. Maybe everything at the same time.
The red-faced man turned to her, and Charles was afraid he was going to punch her, but he just pushed her to the side with his shoulder and disappeared from his sight.
The woman rushed to Charles, hugging him and rocking him in her arms, murmuring something softly.
Even if Charles didn’t know what she was saying, didn’t know who she was, but the gentle touch of her trembling hands felt calming and familiar.
“Het is goed, schatje, het is goed Maxy. Je hebt niets verkeerd gedaan,” she murmured soothingly, running a hand over his hair in a way only a mother could.
Charles instinctively leaned into her chest and closed his eyes, trying to calm his breathing down. He sniffled and opened his eyes, only to find himself back in his own room, sitting in the darkest corner of it.
His eyes darted around. The shadows looked even scarier, the dead silence in the room was even more terrifying than the sounds coming from the street and the red blanket, now pooled on the carpet beside the bed, looked like a puddle of blood.
He felt his lip wobble, a tear run down his already wet face, and before he knew it, he was running through the dark halfway towards his parents’ room, where he buried himself between his sleeping parents, hiding his head under the covers.
Charles’ mom stirred, looking under the covers to look at her teary eyed and terrified son.
“What’s wrong, mon chéri?” she asked gently and pulled him closer. “Did you have a nightmare?”
Charles whimpered and tucked his head into his mom’s chest. “I wanna sleep with you tonight, please,” he pleaded quietly.
His mom sighed and kissed his hair. “It’s okay baby, you can stay here,” she promised.
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Four months have passed since that nightmare. Charles, after a lot of persuasion from his parents, a few mocking jabs from his older brother and some encouragement from his godfather Jules, moved back to his room a week after that nightmare.
Now the shadows during the night didn’t look as scary as they did at the beginning, the sounds coming from the street turned soothing and Charles was feeling like a big boy again.
When Charles got comfortable in his bed and closed his eyes, he was still in his own room.
When he opened them the next time, it was to the same angry voice, the same icy blue eyes, and to the same feeling of utter panic.
Charles whipped his head around, only to find himself sitting in an unfamiliar room, in a bed that definitely was not his.
“Jij nutteloze klepper, waarom lig je nog te slapen?! Volgende keer laat ik je gewoon achter!” The man was screaming again and throwing clothes at him. “Trek je nu aan!”
Charles couldn’t understand what was being screamed at him, but he could piece two and two together, so he quickly grabbed the clothes and started dressing himself, feeling hot tears stream down his cheeks.
He prayed to wake up from this nightmare as soon as possible – everything felt too real, too scary. The unfamiliar house was scary, people he didn’t know were scary, the body he was trapped in felt scary too – unfamiliar, awkward to move around, wrong.
Once Charles was fully clothed, he didn't know what to do. The urge to hide under the worn-down blanket was strong, but once he got closer to bed, his vision blurred and he found himself back in his room, standing right in front of the mirror in the far corner.
His green eyes were teary, his body still shaking from the nightmare. Charles looked around, his bed messy, slippers definitely not where he left them.
Panic crawled up his throat. He remembered all those scary stories Lorenzo whispered to him after bedtime – the ones about spirits, curses, or people who were walking around while being asleep. Charles had always thought that it was just that – scary stories – but now he was starting to believe them.
Since it was still early morning, and he heard that little Arthur was still silent, meaning that maman and papa were able to sleep longer too, he went back to his bed and curled up on himself.
He kept himself awake, scared to have that scary dream again, until he heard Arthur starting to giggle and talk in his own childish language. Once he registered his mother talking softly with the little one, he got up and ran straight to his parents' room, seeking the comfort he knew he could find in his mother's arms.
That night wasn’t the last time he had dreams like that. Over the next few years it happened more times than we could count, usually right after falling asleep or just before dawn. Every single time he would get yelled at, sometimes even slapped across his face. And every time, it would be the same blue-eyed man.
Sometimes there would be that woman too – the one who carried the presence of a mother – and she would always comfort him, calm him down, and he would always wake up immediately.
He never told his parents about it. He didn’t want to worry them, not when they already had their hands full with teenage Lorenzo and little Arthur, who never stopped asking questions or crying. They didn’t need to worry about Charles’ nightmares too, because they were just that – scary dreams.
Charles was ten years old when it happened at a different time of the day. The family was sitting around the dinner table when Charles' vision blurred, a strange pulling sensation tugged at his chest, and suddenly he was sitting at an unfamiliar table, once again yelled at by that man, a plate of untouched dinner sitting in front of him.
The man pushed the plate towards Charles and barked out something that sounded like an order. The woman, mom, gave him a small nod and glanced fearfully at the angry man.
The boy polled the plate closer to him. On it was a lone boiled chicken breast and a spoonful of rice. The only seasoning on the food were Charles' own salty tears. Still, Charles picked up the fork and put a bite into his mouth, fear that the man triggered in him worse than the food itself.
The food was dry and tasteless and Charles had to force it down his throat, but when the man grunted in approval and said something in a language Charles still couldn’t recognise, and went back to his own meal, the boy felt himself relax a little.
When the food was finished and the man left the kitchen, the woman hurried around the table to crouch next to him. She kissed his forehead, smiled a gentle smile and handed him a small candy as she put a finger against her lips in a stay silent gesture.
Charles tried to smile back, but his face muscles fought against him, as if not used to moving like that. Then he unwrapped the candy and popped it into his mouth, giving the wrapper back to the woman who stuffed it into her pocket.
The sweetness exploded on his tongue and his vision blurred again.
He choked. Tomato soup burned his throat, and the spoon fell on the floor. He stood up quickly, looking around.
Parents and Lorenzo were looking at him with concern in their eyes while Arthur looked at him curiously while chewing at his toast.
“Charlie, are you okay?” Maman asked first.
“Stop playing around,” huffed Lorenzo, earning warning glare from Papa.
“I– I’m sorry,” mumbled Charles, heart racing, eyes stinging with unshed tears.
“Oh, finally remembered how to speak,” Lorenzo teased but winced when papa shot him a stern look.
“What?” Charles asked, terrified, having no idea what had happened to him while he had a dream in the middle of the day.
“Dont play around, just a moment ago you were murmuring some kind of gibberish,” Lorenzo chuckled. “I think you need to watch less movies and do more home chores.”
The thing is, Charles could not remember saying anything at all. In any language.
He felt his breath and pulse picking up, tears welling in his eyes. Suddenly concerned looks became too much and he felt himself pushing away from the table and running to his room, slamming the door behind him and getting under his covers.
Charles didn’t know what to do with himself, because everything was blurred by tears, his heart was beating so hard that it was almost painful and his chest felt so tight that it was hard to take a proper breath. It felt like something was trying to tear him away from his own body in the most brutal and painful way.
Suddenly, there’s a quiet knock on the door before it creaked in that familiar way as it's being pushed open.
“Charlie, chéri,” his mom’s soft voice brought him back to the present and he felt his bed dip where she sat on the mattress. She gently pulled the blanket from his head. “Do you wanna talk about this?”
Charles shook his head at first, not wanting to even think about any of this, but then changed his mind and nodded, because maman always knew what to do.
So he buried his face in her lap, breathing in the familiar scent of laundry detergent, specific perfume she used and something so distinctly mom, and told her everything. How he kept getting those scary dreams, how it’s always that same man, and how he dreamed of it just now, while being awake.
“I’m scared, mom,” Charles finally said and looked at his mom, teary-eyed and snotty.
His mom took his face into her hands and wiped away the wetness under his eyes. “Oh, dear, why haven’t you said anything before?”
Later that evening, while brushing his teeth and getting ready for the bed, Charles overheard his parents talking in hushed voices.
But he heard it, heard that they were talking about him.
Charles felt guilt gnawing at him, because his parents had enough on their plate as it was, he’s old enough to know that, and now they are worrying about him too because there’s something wrong with him.
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A few weeks later it happened again. A dream without being asleep, only this time he wasn’t in that house. This time he opened his eyes to something more familiar – a karting track. It wasn’t the one he was going to with papa, but lined up karts and tyre barriers around the track suggested that it definitely was a track.
Charles was about to take the helmet that was on his head off when he was suddenly interrupted by a hard smack against his head. The helmet absorbed most of the hit, but it still felt like his brain rattled in his skull. Before he could turn his head to look where the hit came from, he heard that angry and now familiar voice shout something, another smack accompanying the words.
A few angry sentences later the man slapped him on the back one more time, turned on his heel and stalked off while muttering something under his breath.
Charles stared at his retreating back, not sure what to do.
Then he blinked and was suddenly back in his own body and his family were watching him: terrified, confused. This time even Lorenzo didn't tease him.
“Charles, maybe you started learning Dutch?” his papa asked him in the evening as both of them were sitting at the kitchen table and sipped tea.
“No, papa, English classes are hard enough, I don't like languages that much,” Charles chuckled. “Why, papa, you think I should learn it?”
His dad shifted uncomfortably, looking to the side briefly before saying, “Today, when you had that dream, you were speaking and I recognised some Dutch words. I thought, maybe you started learning it and it caused you some stress or something.”
Charles shivered. Dreaming without sleeping. Speaking in a language he didn't know. It all felt so overwhelming and scary.
“I’m scared,” he admitted, tears stinging his eyes.
“Charlie,” his father hugged him, “it's gonna be okay.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes before his dad sighed heavily. “I know one very nice lady, maybe she can help you.”
That's how Charles found himself sitting in front of the children's therapist’s office door.
His mom squeezed his shoulder encouragingly and smiled at him. “Dont stress, Charlie, she is very nice, you will talk with her and she will know how to help you.”
An elderly woman waited for them in the office. Her grey hair was pulled back into a pony tail and she had round glasses perched on her nose. Her office was decorated with books and plants.
She smiled at Charles once they entered and he felt himself relax a little.
He sat on the couch with his mom and they started with simple questions about brothers, school, his hobbies and favourite foods, but as the minutes passed questions started to lean into the direction that terrified Charles.
“When did these dreams start?“ asked the lady, holding her open notebook and tapping a pen against it.
Charles' mom pressed his hand comfortingly, encouraging him to answer.
“When I started sleeping alone, in my own room,” murmured Charles, a bit shy all of a sudden.
“So that was around four years ago?” Raised an eyebrow lady and Charles' mother nodded in agreement.
After some more questioning, and a few visits to their home, it was decided on weekly scheduled visits to her office, to which Charles reluctantly agreed to.
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For a couple of years the therapist's office became like a second home to Charles. He took comfort in the fact that he could talk about anything and everything with her, but the nightmares – even if more rare – never fully disappeared. They still happened both during the night and during the day sometimes, but it was agreed that as long as it didn’t interfere with his life too much, he would not be taking any medications for it.
Charles was twelve when it happened when he was not at home. It was his first race in another country.
It was a cold and rainy day on a karting track somewhere in Italy, and Charles was running towards the cafeteria to buy a cup of hot chocolate to warm himself up after the race which left him soaked and freezing.
He was weaving between the people when suddenly he slammed against someone and fell on his butt.
He lifted his head to apologise to the person, but the words lodged in his throat when his eyes met icy-cold ones from his nightmares.
Panic squeezed at his throat and it felt like something was pulling painfully at his chest, and before he knew it, he was standing in the men's bathroom, with the man nowhere to be seen.