A/N: Written for a prompt off a prompt sheet which read, "I caught the bouquet".
They had both been invited to the wedding of Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny and Ariane Rocque, which was rather generous really seeing as the only witnesses to Erik and Christine's own nuptials in a secluded church before a priest who was rousted from his bed were a Persian former police chief and his manservant. To be invited to the society wedding of the season was certainly something to tell the grandchildren, however it was decided that only Christine would attend the wedding, for a number of reasons.
Erik's mask would raise a number of unwanted questions and
Erik would spend the day in a distinct state of anxiety being surrounded by so many people and it would most certainly not be good for his heart.
And so, Christine bought a new dress, did her hair immaculately, and attended the wedding. Erik composed for a little while, then when he began to seriously miss her, he took a dose of laudanum with his lemon tea and crawled into bed and slipped into a comfortable dreamless sleep.
His throat is dry, and his mind is a thick soup of nonsense when he feels warm arms wrap around his waist, and a soft kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth. Sighing, he rolls into the softness, nuzzling as deep as he can, her soft voice a babble of words he cannot understand.
It is morning when he wakes again, and Christine is already awake, his head pillowed in her lap as she strokes his thin hair. "How was the wedding?" he croaks, eyes painfully scratchy, like sandpaper, and his throat aching. He blinks hard, rolls his eyes to try and free them, and she presses a cool glass of water to his lips with the silent command to drink. He sips at it, as per her wishes, and it eases his throat, loosening the tightness so that his voice clears somewhat. "How was the wedding?" he asks again, and this time sounds more like his normal self.
A soft smile plays at the corner of her mouth. "Raoul was pleased that I could make it," she says, "though both disappointed and understanding that you could not."
Erik snorts. "I am positive he was very much relieved," and he cannot help the bubble of amusement in his chest when she clearly has to restrain herself from giggling. Her giggles are truly very beautiful, as is everything else about her, and he knows that however lovely Ariane, Vicomtesse de Chagny née Rocque may be, she is nothing on his Christine. He undoubtedly came better out of the affair than dear Raoul. She traces her fingers down his cheek to rest on his lips. He kisses them softly and sighs, body heavy and content just the same. Let Raoul have his Ariane.
"I caught the bouquet." Her hand slips further, caressing his throat and his collarbone and comes to rest warm under his shirt, just over his heart. "Red and white roses. Perhaps later, if you are feeling up to it after your laudanum, we can re-enact our first dance. We never truly got a proper one, you know."
It sounds like a wonderful idea, dancing with her. Holding her in his arms, her head pressed to his chest, soft music swirling around them and the soft light of the fire dancing over her face…Soft music. "We have nobody to play music for us." It is a fundamental objection, and he feels his heart sink, but her smile simply turns impish.
"I have it on excellent authority," she murmurs, kissing his forehead, "that the newlywed de Chagnys," her lips trail down, resting against the curve of his cheek, "are having a very private dance tonight, with very private musicians, and their very private garden will be off-limits to everyone, including servants. However, the key to the very private garden is resting safe in my handbag."
Erik feels his own lips twitch at her words. He truly is corrupting her, though he cannot object to such a suggestion as that. "Are you suggesting what I think you are, my love?"
"A little secluded breaking and entering? Oh yes, my darling, besides," she shifts, nips his ear and elicits a groan from his throat, "Raoul owes me one."