Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's note: This fic was inspired by the 1941 movie Blood and Sand. It will probably end up being a weird hybrid of Blood and Sand and Phantom, which is a good thing, because I really don't want to be labeled a plagiarist. I don't think I will, since I'm just borrowing the basic premise and not much else, but you never know. Anyway, any resemblance you may see to that movie is entirely intentional.
And yes, in case you were wondering, I did name the fic after the Rush song.
What an evening. Christine groaned as she zipped up her jacket. It had been a long day, and she wanted nothing more than to get home and fall into bed. The audience's applause echoed in her ears—always for Carlotta, never for her.
There was a knock on the door. "Miss Daaé?"
"Yes?" Christine asked wearily.
Mr. André, one of the managers, opened the door and poked his head in, looking apologetic. "I'm very sorry, Miss Daaé, but there's a gentleman here who insists on meeting you."
Christine perked up. "An admirer?"
"Well, yes. He—"
"Bring him in," Christine commanded, her tiredness vanishing.
Mr. André disappeared and reappeared a moment later with a tall, dark-haired man in a black suit. Christine was surprised to see a white mask covering one side of his face. She decided not to ask about it and gave him her nicest smile.
"Miss Daaé, this is Mr. Erik Destler. Mr. Destler, this is Miss Christine Daaé, our Siebel."
"Pleased to meet you," Christine said cheerfully, holding out her hand. Mr. Destler took it and shook it slowly, never taking his eyes off her face.
"A pleasure to meet you as well, Miss Daaé," he replied. "You were wonderful tonight."
Christine beamed. "Thank you."
"You are the daughter of the violinist Gustave Daaé, correct?"
Hearing her father's name caught Christine off guard. She hoped Mr. Destler didn't notice. "What? Oh, yes. Yes, that was my father."
"I knew him. Not well, but we performed together once or twice. I was very sorry to hear that he had died."
Christine swallowed the lump rising in her throat. "Yes, it—it was hard on all of us." She changed the subject. "What do you play?"
"Erik plays piano," Mr. André interjected, clearly not wanting to be left out of the conversation. "And he composes music in his spare time, don't you, Erik?"
Erik waved his hand. "The odd piece." He glanced at the clock. "Look at the time! I wish I could stay, but I must run along. Before I go, though…" He reached into his coat and drew out a red rose, which he presented to Christine. "For you, Miss Daaé."
Christine couldn't help blushing a little as she took the rose. "Thank you. It's beautiful."
Erik's eyes met hers, and she noticed they were a striking shade of green. "Yes, it is beautiful, isn't it?"
Christine blushed harder.
Erik stepped back. "Good-bye, Mr. André. Good-bye, Miss Daaé. It was lovely meeting you tonight."
Christine smiled. "It was lovely meeting you, too, Mr. Destler. Good night."
"Good night." And with that, Erik turned and was gone.
"An interesting sort, that one," Mr. André remarked, more to himself than to her. "Well, I'll see you soon, Miss Daaé. Good night."
"Good night, Mr. André." Christine hurried out the door, clutching her rose.
Once outside in the cold night air, she took a deep breath. A real admirer! A handsome one, too. He'd given her a rose. And he'd known her father.
Christine peeked through one of the opera house's windows. Carlotta was still in there, smiling and laughing, her arms full of roses of every color, and surrounded by her friends, a throng of fans, and various staff members, including the managers.
"Someday, that will be me," Christine whispered to herself.
But as she got in her car and started driving home, she didn't feel so sure. Before tonight, no one had ever asked to meet her. No one had ever given her a rose. They only wanted to meet Carlotta or Piangi, and give roses to Carlotta. They didn't care about her.
The huge rainbow of roses in Carlotta's arms kept flashing through Christine's mind. Her own solitary red rose didn't seem that special anymore. For all she knew, Mr. Destler had given Carlotta one just like it. He probably had.
But he still wanted to meet you. And he still gave you a rose. Doesn't that count for anything?
It's a start.
Even so, Christine couldn't help thinking of Carlotta, encircled by people who adored her, and feeling a stab of envy. She wished she were in Carlotta's place, and Carlotta were in her place.
Don't think those things, Christine. Carlotta's an amazing singer. She's been doing this for a lot longer than you have and has a lot more experience. You'll get there, you just have to be patient.
But Christine had been patient, and being patient had done nothing. Would she ever be that good? Could she ever be that good?
"I can and I will," Christine said out loud as she pulled into her parking spot. "I'll be as big as Carlotta—bigger!"
Christine got out of her car, walked up the stairs of her apartment building, went in, and walked down the hall to her apartment. As apartments went, it wasn't much, but it was affordable, and it was home.
Christine filled a vase with water, put the rose in the vase, and set the vase on the kitchen table, where it would be in the sun the next morning. She poured herself a glass of wine and raised the glass in a toast. "Here's to many more of you," she said to the rose, and took a sip.
The rose didn't answer, but Christine thought she saw its petals lift a little.
"And here's to you, Mr. Erik Destler, wherever you are. May you be the first in a long line of people who want to give me roses." She drank.
The only answer was the sound of a car going by on the road outside.
"And here's to you, Carlotta. Get ready to share those roses." Christine pictured the look on Carlotta's face if she heard that, laughed, and drank deeply.
"And here's to you, Daddy," she whispered. "I'll be a star, just like you said I would be. Everyone will love me like they love Carlotta. I'll keep working hard, and I won't give up. I won't end up like you did. I promise."
Christine finished her drink, put the glass in the sink, and yawned. Excitement or not, Mr. Destler or no Mr. Destler, rose or no rose, she was exhausted. Time to get some sleep.
Christine looked at the rose, remembered how green Mr. Destler's eyes had been, and shivered a little. She couldn't wait to tell her friends about him in the morning.