A/N: Today is my three-year Phandom-versary, so have some Tinder 'verse fluff.
As birthdays go, it's one of the best he's ever had. Of course, Christine having come back from Coimbra was in itself enough to make the day special. (Every day with Christine is, after all, special, but especially now, when she can only get home every few months and he'll see even less of her in the next year while she tries to wrap up her PhD.) Getting to wake up beside her, her sweet face nuzzled into his chest, arm draped around his waist, is already the highlight of his day.
(And then she woke, and sleepily grinned up at him, and kissing turned to something much more. Her little breathless gasp when he did the thing with his tongue went straight to his groin, and then her hands were on him, and what happened after was, well, a blessed thing. A sacred, beautiful thing, the memory of which must sustain him when she is back in Portugal, and so he will not dwell on it now.)
After their morning session, they de-camped to the kitchen (mostly dressed, for the sake of Nadir's modesty) and had pancakes with cream and little berries. The memory of Mr Waffle the time they went to Galway and had pancakes while sweating through their hangovers was sudden and sharp, and when he mentioned it she snorted and tea shot up her nose.
Nadir nearly choked with the sudden laughter.
The day is sunny, warm but not too hot. Not hot enough that it feels as if it's going to take his skin off, and his sunglasses soften the hue of it, tint Christine's hair to gold before she hides it under a hat like his and twines their hands and they venture into the castle. The castle is something he has become blind to through the years, just another feature of the summer with the quirk that it's only open during the summer months, while he's busy composing, which is possibly why, in all his years here, he has never gone inside.
History has never been his thing unless it has to do with music. And wild horses couldn't keep Christine away from the castle which is why she's visited it many, many times and knows every nook of it, so it's for a change of scenery more than anything that they wander through the tumbled down remains of the keep, cool in the shade of the overhanging trees.
"I have a good mind to push you against the wall," he murmurs, voice low in her ear, precious memories of their morning in bed drifting before his eyes, and she swats him.
"Do you want to get us kicked out?"
"It'd be a fun story for the grandchildren."
He almost expects her to berate him for blaspheming a historic site, but instead her laugh fills the air and it catches him so off guard he trips over his own feet on the lawn and pulls her with him as they tumble down the embankment.
Their laughter leaves them breathless, their hats fallen somewhere and his glasses askew and though he fixes them it is only when they can look at each other without cracking up again that she pulls him back to his feet, collects their hats, and helps him brush the grass off his jeans.
"Maybe we should have a picnic here next year." Mischief twinkles in her eyes as she settles his hat back on his head.
"Better a picnic than a re-enactment."
They catch each other's gazes, and the laughter rises in his throat again, more than he can hope to contain, and when it bursts out she starts giggling too, and then they are both laughing hopeless to try and stop as they stumble and pull each other back up the embankment, like two drunkards in the midday sun, oblivious to the glances of tourists and lounging teenagers as they pass back through the gates onto the street.
It's ages before they can look at each other without grinning.
Mostly they wander, exploring the town they know so well, reliving old kisses by the stone benches along the river behind the print shop, tasting the vanilla ice-cream off each other's lips by the old mill wheel. They slip into the tiny bookshop in the shopping centre, but there is nothing there that they want that they don't already have (though she has to tear him away when he pulls Order of the Phoenix off the shelf and it opens at the page where Sirius falls through the veil. "I prefer the necromancy AUs anyway," he sniffs as she shelves it, and then grabs his hand before he can pick up The Subtle Knife and hurt himself thinking about Lee Scoresby. It fulfils their old ritual when he has to slide Killers of the Dawn out of her hand, and their gazes fall to the cheap two-volume Wordsworth edition of Les Mis that they each already have and they have not spoken of it yet but something will have to be done about amalgamating their book collections ahead of the wedding, and with soft murmured words they quietly leave, hand-in-hand.) Then there is the traditional lamentation of the loss of the DVD shop, where he bought his secondhand copy of Prisoner of Azkaban and she got her copy of Casablanca when she was eighteen and use it in the comparative part of her English exam, and of all the times they each visited that old shop they never ran into each other, and if they had they would not have known, would not have realised that this was the person who would become their whole world.
They buy two bottles of wine, red and white, and wander out, down Main Street, visit where the poky comic shop used to be, another place they only ever visited apart because it, too, was gone by the time they were together, and she buys him a cheap pocket watch in the shop of knick-knacks.
"Happy birthday," and she kisses his cheek as she fixes it on his shirt.
"I feel so aristocratic." He is minimally sarcastic, feels the blush in his ears when her eyes twinkle and she kisses him again, full on the lips.
"I suggest you wear it to bed," she murmurs, "tonight, on a little chain," and her words leave him lightheaded.
They drop into the proper big bookshop just to breathe it in, and muse over whether to step into the public library or not then, decide not to because it will be full of kids and it's so small it always feels as if the walls are closing in, as if there are eyes on them constantly, watching for them to make some slip against a code of library etiquette known only to an elite few. They are each more at home in the university library where there is anonymity in the spaces and shadows, peeking at each other through the stacks.
By the time they reach the lane leading up to the hotel, neither of them are in the mood to walk the length of it and wind their way across the golf course to get there, so they double back in pursuit of food.
"We could have the reception out there though," Christine says, over lunch in the pub, and his heart flutters at the thought of the wedding that's still more than a year and a half away, still the subject of his dreams until she finishes her thesis and passes her viva and graduates and moves back here permanently. Then her eyes flash again, as if anticipating what he might say. "Rainy Night in Soho is not an appropriate first dance song."
"I never said it was." He has not yet told her that he is composing their first dance song himself, that some of it is already coming together and he is going to get one of his students to play it for them just as soon as he decides which one.
(He's considered composing the Mass as well, but he's slightly afraid that might be counted as taking on too much with his other pieces and lecturing and research, so he's settled for choosing some select pieces from Erik Delacarte, the notorious 19th Century outlaw who disappeared into obscurity after going straight and who's repertoire was considered lost until Kate unearthed some works in a Denver archive last year and now with the leads she found he's taken the man on as one of his Projects so he really can't have time to compose his wedding Mass and it's only appropriate to include Delacarte; and some pieces from E.K. Daaé, good old Konstin who he's had a probably unhealthy attachment to since he was seven and found some of his Dad's old classical tapes, for the sake of which he learned how to operate a tape deck. Even after all these years, the thought of his father sitting back, listening to that same music so long ago (maybe even before he was born) makes his throat close up, and if playing Daaé is the only way he can include his father in his wedding—he blinks the tears out of his eyes before Christine can catch them, because dammit he will not cry on his birthday, not when they're having such a wonderful day.)
"We could get the DJ to play it later though, instead of some of the cheesy love songs." Rainy Night in Soho. He'd almost forgotten what they were talking about, and her words pull him back, drive all thought of the old grief for his Dad away.
He smiles, and sips his wine. He shouldn't be drinking really, but a little drop today can hardly hurt. "So long as there's some Florence on the list too."
"Naturally. But we can't have Annan Water."
"What about Red Right Ankle?" It's his favourite. Ever and always his favourite.
"Red Right Ankle should be our first dance." A smirk plays around the corner of her mouth.
"I'm sure Nadir would appreciate it."
She arches one brow, and he fights the urge to grin. It fails abysmally because her voice is admonishing as she says, "So long as he doesn't decide you're trying to re-live the Glorious Summer of 2006 again. Complete with necromantic Harry Potter AU fics."
"That was once."
"Twice."
"Okay, maybe three times." Probably more, in fact, but she doesn't need to know that.
He's fighting a smile, but when she leans across the small table and kisses him he gives up on the attempt.
They loop around after lunch, back up to the North Campus and the green in the middle with the trees they've often curled up under. It's quiet now, students not due back for almost a month, and though it is surely conduct unbecoming of a professor, Erik decides he doesn't care and he settles under their favourite tree. Christine dives down and steals another kiss before settling beside him, leaning against his shoulder.
"I have a present for you," she murmurs, "all the way from Lisbon."
"Really? All that way?" And he smiles into her hair. "I think I might enjoy becoming your kept man."
"Mhmm I hear it's an excellent career opportunity." She twists and kisses him, nips his lip, then leans back, opening her bag. "It's only something small."
"It doesn't matter how big or small it is. It's special just by being from you." He is aware that he sounds like something of a sap, but where Christine is concerned he can hardly care. She could turn him into the sappiest man in the world and he would not care. It would be an honor to become a sap for her.
She snorts, and it's all he can do to remain as serious and solemn as the occasion of receiving a present demands. But somehow he manages it, and from her bag she withdraws a small box, wrapped in dove-gray paper, and sets it into his palm.
If he had not already proposed to her, he might almost suspect that that is what she is getting at. But instead he glances at her, and then back down to the box in his hand. It's professionally wrapped, he can tell. Christine, bless her, has never been one for neat wrapping.
"What is it?" The words escape him before he can ever hope to keep them in, and she huffs a laugh.
"I suggest you open it to find out."
And of course she is right. It is the logical, straightforward thing to do, but he hates disturbing such beautiful wrapping. Maybe if he just opens one end, he can slide the box out of it and keep the paper in that perfect shape forever, a reminder of this moment, this wonderful day. Of this moment here, now.
Carefully, deftly, he eases open one folded end, long fingers moving slow, and lightly taps the other end so the box falls out.
It is small and velvet and dark blue in his hand, almost the same shade as her eyes, and he brushes his fingertips lightly over it, swallowing at how soft it is. Taking a steadying breath, his heart thudding harder than it has any right to (it's not as if she can ask him to marry her, after all, not when he has already asked her), he opens it.
And inside is a set of cufflinks, brown and hazel and gold like his eyes. It must have cost a ridiculous amount of money, and it is on the tip of his tongue to protest, but before he can get a word out she presses a finger to his lips.
"They weren't as bad as you think, and besides? If I can't give my fiancé something for the wedding on his birthday, then what can I give him?"
He swallows anything he was going to say, tears springing to his eyes, and nods, kissing her fingers. "They're beautiful," he whispers, heart too full to say anything more.
They make it home, eventually. The cufflinks are safely stored away in his pocket, and he runs his fingers lovingly over the box as they walk, too lost in thought, too full of feeling, to say anything. But Christine's hand is a reassuring pressure in his, and with her he does not need to speak, can live in his head and sink into the wonderful love that fills him just at her presence and she will understand.
How did he ever live before he knew her?
Four and a half years and he has no idea.
It must only have been a half-life, and he was so content in it that he never realised but now—
Now she is all he needs. The sun could burn up, the earth cease to rotate, the seas all swell up over the land, and he would still be safe, would still live, so long as he had her.
He could endure forever with her at his side, and it's such a cliché, such a ridiculous poetic romantic trope, but he knows it is true, he has no doubt of it, not when it comes to Christine.
And she smiles up at him, and his breath hitches, and never has he been happier that this woman has agreed to swear to spend the rest of her life with him than he is in this moment.
A/N: Yes those were references to both Running Through the Rain and Wraiths of Wandering. I couldn't help it
And Killers of the Dawn is one of the Saga of Darren Shan novels, which I grew up on along with Harry Potter