Title: The Deluge

Rating: PG I suppose

Pairing: Erik/Christine, because I feel like doing that and besides, it's me OTP.

Disclaimer: These folks belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber, (loosely) based on the characters of Gaston Leroux. Yay.

Note: Felt like writing fluff. So, have some fluff. It is very sweet, and FLUFFY. Also totally AU. Ah well.

The Deluge

Curve of forehead. Dark pearl gleam of closing eyelid, settling over blue crystal irises. Soft, feathery curl of dusky hair. The way it's swept up, held by seven glimmering black pins.

This is not what he loves about her—the white space of delicate breast, the little hollow of her throat. He doesn't care about her tiny, pearly nails, perched on long pale fingers. He doesn't love her for the way those hands twist into each other when she is nervous, nor the seashell half-moons of her white ears.

No, what he loves her for is her voice, quiet and hesitant and clear, each syllable, each note singing in his head. He can't sleep for thinking about her, and when he does, he dreams of her voice. She can sing a pure sound, it is true, but she needs him for her technique, still far from perfect. He trains her every morning, and watches not her face, but her hands, where she twists and twists the little gold band. He wonders why she is nervous. He asks.

If he had been watching her mouth, he would have seen a scared smile, trembling like butterfly wings. But now he is watching her eyes, her blue eyes aglow with fear and desire and nervousness and love and music.

And she pushes that glow aside, she shoves it away, she tells him to continue. And she sings one last sweet aria, and then all her hidden emotions come tumbling back into her eyes and her hands, twisting, twisting, and she sweeps aside the music and stops, questioningly. And slowly she touches her butterfly lips to his. A last gasp of fear—from whom, she cannot tell, but the music is still ringing in their heads as her eyes glow, flame, spark.

Now the tears are falling, from him and from her, and they mingle and drip from their chins in little salty trails.

He whispers something, something, and their hearts beat fast as one.

And she whispers, "I love you."