A/N: I've hated coming to this decision, but if you follow my Tumblr you'll know what I'm going to say. Last week I decided to discontinue this fic. I've lost interest in it, and writing it was damned difficult to begin with, it being such a departure from my usual sort of thing. So basically I'm abandoning it and not writing any more new content.
But I also faced a dilemma over what to do with all of the ficlets that I've already written in this verse. I have 14 ficlets, most of which were written in response to prompts on Tumblr, so I've decided to post them here as chapters, one a day until my laptop folder is empty. With breaks on Saturdays for Running Through the Rain, or anything special that I post in lieu of updates to that.
I will give brief summaries of what happens between each ficlet, so none of you will get lost. I will still love and appreciate reviews on this, but I'm not continuing it as an active story, and anything that's described in the summaries will not be written.
So. To those of you who do not follow me on Tumblr (and to those of you who do, and missed these ficlets when I posted them there or have forgotten about them) I hope you enjoy the upcoming little collection. And I hope you will please support Running Through the Rain, and any of my future fics.
Thank you for reading.
In the time between chapter 4 and this ficlet, Erik and Christine have become close friends through their lessons. Christine has performed the lead in a couple of operas, and they have fallen in love with each other, though neither of them quite realises this and certainly won't admit it to anyone. They love discussing books and music, and regularly go on walks in the Luxembourg.
Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.
His hand brushes against hers, very softly, a thrill running through her. It is a struggle not to take that hand, to turn and look at him. (A struggle not to kiss him, to lift his mask and press her lips gently to his. She has often wondered what it might be like to kiss him. For all that his lips are thin they do look so soft, and she can feel her own crying out to meet them.) She swallows, her lips still tingling, and maintains her focus straight ahead.
He is her teacher, and her friend, and that is all they are, all she knows they can be, but, oh, how she longs to take him in her arms, and hold him. Just hold him.
A shudder runs though him, too, as their hands brush, and it occurs to him that it would be very easy to turn his hand, and grasp hers, and twine their fingers. Those fingers…he has spent many hours admiring them, in lessons, in rehearsals, in their walks, here in the Luxembourg and as he escorts her home. They are very slender, very delicate, very graceful, as if they might piece together the broken shards of a mirror without cutting themselves.
(His throat is dry at the very thought.)
He cannot keep himself from looking at her as they walk, from breathing her in. She is lovely every day, all the time, without realising it – those bright blue eyes and that blonde hair, so light as to almost be white. Her soft features, and small nose, and gentle lips that make his heart ache. If he were a stronger man, a braver man, he might ask permission to kiss her, to press his lips to hers. But he is not a brave man, only a coward, too afraid to risk what they have for the longing burning inside of him.
"Erik?" Her voice is light, a question, and it snaps him back in an instant to the park, to her eyes gazing into his, and his heart thuds painfully, realising he has been staring at her.
"Yes, Christine?"
Her brow furrows, and his fingers ache to smooth the expression away. Her face should never be marred in such a way!
"What is it you're looking at?"
You. The wonder of you, and these feelings that I can't name. "Oh, nothing in particular. Just thinking." It is not exactly a lie. He does not think he could ever lie to her.
Her lips twitch, and the gentleness in her eyes thrills him to the core, makes his heart ache. "About what?"
How very beautiful you are. But he cannot say that, not without overstepping the bounds between them, and he fumbles a moment, only one brief moment before righting himself. "The new opera. I think we should have them design a blue dress for you."