Disclaimer: I don't own Meg, Christine or Raoul. I own the Comte de Rédon, but then again, who'd really want to?
For those who are familiar with my other work, be warned – this is a serious fic. A darkfic, even. I must be out of my mind. I am fully expecting reviews telling me to stick to humor in the future. Enjoy, anyways.
Envy
Sometimes, Meg lies awake at night and almost hates Christine.
The feeling never lasts for long. After all, it's not Christine's fault that she has fame, and the power that goes along with it – she never asked for all that. It was handed to her on a platter. It's not Christine's fault that the managers can't afford to lose another prima donna. Prima donnas are carefully courted and cosseted; they are valuable. Not like ballet rats, who can be fired with impunity if they do not obey. There is always another ballet rat somewhere who can do the same job.
It's not Christine's fault that she has gone straight from being a chorus girl, invisible and therefore safe, to being so important that no one can possibly order her about – unless she lets them, as she too often does, because she is Christine and kind. If it were Meg, she wouldn't let anyone tell her what to do - but Meg does not have that luxury.
It's not Christine's fault that she loves Raoul – a patron, a wealthy patron, courted by the managers as ardently as they court Christine – and he loves her back. Sometimes when Christine is telling her about Raoul, Meg can't hold back half-hysterical giggles at the irony of it all. Christine does not understand why. Christine, who cannot be told what to do, who drifts through the Opera oblivious, a pale ghost wrapped up in her own ghostly concerns, cannot possibly understand why. Meg will does not enlighten her. Christine is innocent, and it would not be the act of a friend to shatter that.
Most of the time, Meg knows that none of it is Christine's fault. But sometimes – when she's lying awakee in the shadow of Comte Rédon's enormous potbelly, stiffly pretending to be asleep – she forgets.
When feels him shake her shoulder, and hears the cracked voice, unmusical, nothing that belongs in or near an Opera no matter how many sous he has given to support it – "I'm not sleepy yet, petite fille. Come dance for me again" – then, colder, harsher, "Shall I tell your managers you're being uncooperative? I don't think they'd like to hear that, petite fille –"
Then, in the middle of the night, she almost hates Christine.