Erik gazed into the mirror as he struggled with his cravat. He was never good at tying these things. He missed his old bow ties, but apparently those were not stylish anymore-except for certain things. With a great sigh, he unknotted his fingertips and tried again. On the third try, he finally succeeded. He pulled his tailed suit coat on and smoothed the lapels. He had to look perfect. She would have wanted him to look perfect. Especially tonight.

Eight years. How the time had flown since that night on the pier at Coney Island. Every morning Erik would wake praying it was all a nightmare...that she was still with him...that he would roll over in bed and find her sleeping next to him. But he always woke up alone, sometimes gripping what would have been her pillow, its surface laced with his tears. Each year the pain lessened a tiny fraction, but it was difficult to leave her behind when he saw her face every day.

Gustave was eighteen. A grown man. Yet he still harbored that look of wonder in his eyes for the world; it was the same look Erik saw when he showed him around Phantasma all those years ago. They had a good relationship, but there was always a sadness hanging between them. At times Erik swore he resented him, for failing to save his mother. Or perhaps he simply blamed him. Once Gustave had damned himself as the cause of her death. Within Erik's hearing he said if he had never been born, then his mother would still be alive. Erik admonished him while hugging him tightly, and then made him promise never to say such things again. He promised and had never spoken of it again.

Chewing his lip, he pulled on his mask and smoothed his wig beneath the ribbon. It was the same mask he wore that night-the night his angel had kissed him with all the love in her heart. Erik gripped his chest at the memory. If he concentrated hard enough, he could still feel her lips against his.

"Papa?"

Erik turned and dropped his hand from his chest. He didn't want Gustave to see him like that. He smiled at the sight of his son. The suit he wore was one of Erik's, an older one but still in perfect shape. The crease in the trousers was straight and without any notches. The white shirt looked crisp, accented with onyx buttons. Gustave pulled at the tailed coat on his shoulders and fixed the cuffs with matching onyx links. Erik stepped toward him and straightened his white tie.

"It fits you well. How does the jacket feel? It's not pulling on your arms, is it?" He circled Gustave and picked a bit of fuzz off his shoulder.

"No, it feels okay. I still don't understand why we couldn't get a new suit for me."

Erik gave a half smile and buttoned Gustave's coat closed. "Because this is a lucky suit. It's always brought great things my way."

Gustave raised an eyebrow, not quite believing him. "Such as?"

Erik fixed the last button, but kept his gaze locked on it. "Your mother."

"Oh."

With a small nod, Erik turned away to fetch his overcoat. "The first night I saw her, I was wearing that suit. And the first time we actually...met...I was wearing it as well." A distant memory of that night formed in his mind; the night he had guided her through the mirror and down to his dark home beneath the Opera.

"I can buy you a new suit next time," he said with a faraway look.

Gustave fixed his cuffs again and shook his head. "No. I'll keep this one. Maybe I'll meet my own angel while wearing it."

Erik turned to smile at him with a touch to his cheek. "Maybe you will. We better get going so you won't be late."

The carriage ride to the theatre was a short one spent in silence. The sun was setting and cast a dark orange light across Erik's mask. The buildings of New York City breezed past as they rounded a corner, the horses trotting eagerly ahead. Erik glanced at Gustave's hands as he wrung them together.

"Nervous?"

Gustave snapped his eyes up. "What? No. Maybe. I don't know," he trailed off and looked away again.

"What's wrong?"

Gustave shook his head and stared at his hands. Erik reached out and placed a hand over his.

"It's just nerves. You'll be brilliant. Just...pretend it's only me in the room. If you get nervous, look for me in the crowd. I shouldn't be too difficult to spot," he chuckled with a gesture to his mask.

Gustave smiled at that and nodded. "I just don't want to disappoint you. Or her."

Erik tightened his hand around his son's. "You could never disappoint me."

The carriage lurched to a halt, the horses' hooves clacking loudly on the cobblestones. Muffled footsteps over their heads echoed through the cab as the driver climbed down to open the door. They both climbed out and looked up the steps towards the theatre. Erik turned to Gustave.

"Ready?"

"I think so."

They walked up the steps and headed for the side door, where they would part ways. A crowd was already filtering through the main doors; it was a sea of fine suits and colorful dresses. All well-to-do New Yorkers with a penchant for the arts. Erik grabbed Gustave by the shoulder before he vanished through the stage door and pulled him into a hug.

"I'll see you afterwards. Have a wonderful show." At the last second, he kissed his cheek and stepped away. "Go. Make us both proud."

Gustave smiled and said, "I will, Papa."

Erik watched him vanish through the stage door and smiled. Suddenly he felt nervous for him, his palms growing sweaty. Shaking it off, he turned towards the main doors and joined the crowd. The lobby was already abuzz with patrons enjoying pre-show cocktails and last minute conversation. A few people cast Erik a sideways glance, their eyes sizing up his mask. He ignored them; it had been years since such looks had affected him. As he made his way through the mass of people, he picked up on bits of their conversations.

"He's a brilliant musician from what I've heard."

"...the son of some famous composer."

"Couldn't be that famous as I've never heard of him!"

"…he has some strange deformity."

The last comment stopped Erik in his tracks. He slowly turned his gaze towards the speaker. She was an older woman wrapped in a fur stole and wearing the smuggest look he had ever seen. The moment Erik looked at her, she noticed his mask and glanced away. Erik gave her a hard look but thought better of saying anything. She would see in a matter of moments how wrong she was.

The lights flickered to signal everyone to take their seats. Erik hurried to his seat, stopping only for a second when the usher handed him a program. As he took his seat half the distance from the stage, he studied the paper in his hands.

Carnegie Hall

presents:

Gustave Daae

In his world premiere

Erik smiled at the words. Gustave had changed his last name years ago. Erik never once asked him to take his last name—not because it was a single letter—but because it wasn't a family name. Gustave chose his mother's name; he said he wanted to shed the misnomer that was de Chagny. Initially Erik argued against it; he didn't want Gustave to make a hasty decision and later come to regret it. But the young man was firm in his opinion.

Why would I keep the name of a man who was never my father, neither by blood or deeds?

Erik was struck silent by that and hadn't argued the topic any further. Within a few months, Gustave came home one day proudly displaying his new papers that read Daae.

A proud name, Erik said with a smile.

It's all right? You're not upset I didn't take your name?

I don't have a true name. You couldn't ask for a better one than that of your grandfather's. And of an angel's.

The lights dimmed to be replaced by a single spotlight on stage. A grand piano stood alone, its black wood casting a muted gleam. Steady applause rose from the audience as the side door slowly opened. Erik didn't move; his hands gripped the program as Gustave appeared. His suit was still in perfect shape. Two women behind Erik made audible noises, an obvious reaction to how dashing his son looked. Gustave smiled and took a small bow. It wasn't until he turned to sit at the piano bench that Erik noticed the single red rose in his hands. He carefully set it on top of the piano, its bud facing the theater. With a short glance at the audience, he caught Erik's eyes and nodded with a smile. Erik returned it and waited anxiously for him to begin. His eyes drifted to the rose again, which only served to confuse him. Gustave hadn't said anything about it, and it was highly unusual for a musician to bring something to the piano. Erik's brow furrowed and he looked down at the program again. He flipped it open to find Gustave's biography. At the bottom was a short note he had written:

This performance is dedicated to my mother, my Angel of Music.

Erik instantly felt tears forming at the words. His eyes shot back up to the rose on the piano. Of course.

Gustave sat on the bench and settled his hands over the keys, his back straight yet relaxed as Erik had taught him. A hush fell over the audience as they awaited the first notes. With a deep breath, he began to play. For the first piece he had selected Beethoven's Appassionata sonata. The way his fingers danced over the keys looked effortless. Even when he had to reach hand over hand for an upper octave, he didn't look at all fazed by the music's complexity. The entire time he held a soft smile on his lips, his focus drawn to the rose before him.

With each piece Gustave played, Erik could feel the audience around him growing more and more enraptured with him. The level of difficulty increased as he played. It was the final one that caused every jaw in the crowd to drop. Gustave had selected Beethoven's Sonata opus 106. The 4th movement's fugue was nicknamed the Hammerklavier. It was widely considered one of the most difficult pieces to play. And he performed it without a single flaw. His hands almost became a blur over the keys, the grand piano singing with powerful notes.

Erik had to remind himself not to grip the program in his hands, to prevent it from wrinkling. The amount of pride and awe that swelled in his heart was staggering. His son was an even better pianist than he. For years Erik had taught him the piano himself, but at the age of fourteen, he could see the boy needed a more skilled tutor. Of course Erik had spared no expense; he found the greatest pianist in the city to teach him. Now, four years later, Gustave was a certified prodigy.

Gustave played the final notes which were immediately met with thunderous applause. Every patron in the theater stood and clapped excitedly. Erik slowly found his feet and gazed at his son, who was taking several bows. The rose was in his hand. He looked out over the crowd to smile at Erik, and then lifted his hand to kiss the rose. Erik smiled and lifted his hands as he applauded. Gustave took one more bow and walked offstage. The masses of people began to disperse; everyone was talking excitedly about what they had just seen. Erik didn't move though; he sat down again and waited until the last few people had gone.

His coat over one arm, the program in hand, Erik slowly rose and walked to the aisle. The piano caught his eye though and seemed to draw him closer. The ushers either didn't notice him or didn't care when he climbed the steps to the stage. Erik walked halfway to the piano and stopped. The rose was laying on the keys. His eyes fixed on it as he moved to the bench and laid his coat over the end. He took a seat and set the program on the piano before reaching for the rose. Its petals were cool and soft against his hand.

"Papa?"

Erik startled, the rose nearly at his lips. He turned to see Gustave in the wings, a small smile on his face.

"Are you all right?"

"Bravo, mio angelo. You were brilliant."

Gustave smiled again and approached to sit next to Erik on the bench. He gazed at the rose in Erik's hands. "You always had them on your piano. The first lesson with my teacher…it was as though I had never played before. My fingers faltered on simple warm up scales."

"I remember you came home that day with reddened knuckles. A practice I put a stop to immediately." Erik's eyes darkened at the memory. The thought of anyone striking his son…

"Even so, it wasn't for several weeks that I finally realized I played much better on your piano at home than I ever did at my lessons. I didn't know what it was at first, but after much trial and error, I appeared at my teacher's door one day with a single rose in my hand. He protested at first, calling such an idea childish. His tune changed though when he heard my playing that evening." Gustave gestured to the bloom in Erik's hand. "It was the rose. It always was. My skills come from you, Papa. Of that I am certain. But the music…"

Erik gave him a knowing smile and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "The music always came from your mother."

Gustave nodded and wiped a single tear from his cheek. "I knew you would understand."

Erik kissed his son on the temple and handed him the rose. "She was my Angel of Music. Now she is yours."