Her fingers are soft curled around his, small and gentle, and every time he thinks of them his heart stutters. She is musing about the night's performance, but he has not space in his head to consider it, not tonight. There are too many questions in his mind, about tomorrow. Valentine's Day, that traditional day for lovers. True, they have been together for four months now, and it is only right that he have something for her (and he does, a piece that he spent three weeks working on to have just right, and he's going to play it for her on his violin in lieu of a lesson), but it baffles him still that she chose him. How did she ever agree to be with him? Him! Of all men! There are more than enough men her own age, composers and musicians and singers too, who would dearly love to hold her and bring her gifts the way he does, who would compose music in her honour if they were given the chance, and yet it is him that she permits. Him, and only him, and she wraps her tiny fingers around his and smiles up at him as if he is the greatest thing in the world, as if he is something of a miracle, when it is her that is the miracle. Her and only her.
He can feel the chords of that piece beneath his fingertips, and it is all he can do not to pluck them against her hand. The morning. It will keep until the morning.
"Your head is wandering again." Her voice is low, magnified by the stillness of the street, and he feels briefly weak as it cuts through his thoughts, brings him back to her. "What are you thinking about, Erik?"
How wonderful and beautiful you are, and the music you make me write, and what a fortunate man I am to have you in my life. "How very beautiful you look tonight, my darling." It is the simplest way to put it, and there is a contentment about her beneath the gas streetlamps that make her eyes shine bluer, her hair more golden, and the way she has her hair plaited is almost enough to send him into a tizzy. Better to talk about her beauty than his problems of comprehension.
(Sometimes, late at night, he almost thinks her an angel incarnate, but she need not know that. She might think him mad. (She might be right.))
She stops walking, and smiles up at him, her eyes twinkling. "You are very handsome tonight yourself." Her fingers tighten around his, and with a faint smirk she stretches up and presses her lips softly to corner of his mouth, uncovered by his mask.
His heart thuds painfully, the breath knocked out of his lungs and he gasps as she pulls back, blushing, gripping his arm with her free hand to steady him. That lovely, light hand is not enough and his knees tremble, and he leans back against the wall so that he does not fall on top of her, and what a mess that would be. He would be altogether too tall for her to support then and the wall is cold against his back, brings him back to his senses as he gasps in another breath, his heart fluttering. "I'll never get used to that," he whispers, his voice faint, and her smile widens as she moves closer to him, cups his chin gently with her hand.
"Oh, I'm sure," she murmurs, smiling, "that if I do it often enough, you will." She straightens herself, and cocks an eyebrow the way he might, and says, sounding far too much like him," It is simply a matter of practice, Erik. And experience." He cannot help the breathy laugh that slips from his lips, because how many times has he said those very words to her about her singing?
Her eyes soften, and this time, when she presses her lips softly to the corner of his, he is ready, and he inclines his head just enough so that their lips meet fully. She giggles into his mouth, and he smiles against her lips, draws her closer to him, and in the stillness of the night there is only them, only this.
And he would not have it any other way.
A/N: This is set in a 'verse that I am playing with on Tumblr called the Composer AU. Consider it a taster of a future project...