Early in their marriage, he finds her very distracting

She has wonderful lips, his Christine. Wonderful, full lips that make his heart stir when his eyes fall on them. He has never seen such beautiful lips. True, they are full but not as full as other women's, and there is a bow to her top lip that he could write poetry to. (He once wrote an aria to it, in a night of composing as she slept in their bed, and she blushed pink the first time he played it for her.)

It was her lips he noticed first. Well, truthfully it was her voice, but her voice came from those lips and so they naturally drew the eye. And he has been thankful ever since that he was there that day to hear that voice, because otherwise they would not be here now, would not have this. And on the closing night of the opera she first starred in, he had a mad impulse to kiss her, and it left him lightheaded because in all of fifty years he had never wanted to kiss a woman's lips before, and suddenly he did. It only lasted a moment, that impulse, but it came back to him, in quiet nights and still mornings hunched over his piano, and oh, how he puzzled over it.

The first time he kissed those lips he thought he might die.

Of course, he didn't. He did break down though under the weight of all of that emotion, and she held him and spoke softly to him, and kissed his forehead, and though he already knew he loved her, in that moment he knew that there was nowhere else in the world for him but her arms.

She snuffles softly in her sleep, her fingers curling a little more around his, and he bows his head just enough that he can kiss her hair. His little wife, his lovely Christine. How wonderful she is, really, and how she fell in love with him, of all men, is a question he still sometimes struggles to get his head around, though she has worn his ring for years. But he does not question it tonight, not when her lips are so soft nuzzling into his throat as she sleeps. When she is in his arms like this, there can never be room left for questions.

It still surprises him, that he is permitted to think of her as being anything other than immaculately turned out, that he is allowed to see her in such a way. His wife, who lies beside him at night, and wraps her arms around his waist and holds him close. Even in his wildest dreams of considering their marriage he still could not quite bring himself to imagine that she might allow him to see her undressed, that they might be intimate with each other.

Oh, he knows it is what other people do, other married couples. But they are different, have been different from the first moment he decided to teach her, and all through their courtship he steadfastly kept thoughts of such intimacy far from his mind. To be close to her, to be able to hold her… That is all he wanted, all he truly desired. To not have to say goodbye to her at the end of the night, and it was that very craving for closeness that led to his decision to propose marriage. Anything else, anything else is just extras.

Extras that wear him out, overwhelm him, if he is being honest. And if they overwhelm him, what must they do to her? She cannot be in a state of exhaustion, not when she needs to be on top form for performing, and hardly were they home from their honeymoon when he proposed to her that they should limit their, ah, encounters, for the sake of the music.

(There is no telling how relieved he was when she agreed. At his age he does not have the stamina for that sort of prolonged activity. He very nearly dozed off on top of her on their fifth night! And while it was very enjoyable nonetheless, he has no wish to embarrass himself like that.)

Still, he can at least think of her. And think of her he does. It inspires his music, makes it flow freer from his fingertips when he thinks of her, pressing her warm body against his back, or brushing her lips against his, (and that thing she does with her tongue, that she confessed Sorelli advised her in (he ought to send a bouquet of appreciation to Sorelli)). And when he permits his mind to think of her in her costume, the dress pooling at her feet, and his own hands untying her corset for it to fall away and reveal her in her soft, pale glory, her breasts warm beneath his touch, her legs slender and elegant—When he permits himself to think of her thus, his throat runs dry, and he is grateful that his fingers know better than to stumble on the piano keys.

(He worked those feelings that she inspires into a piece, once. And the moment she heard it she forbade him from ever putting it into an opera, and took him to bed. He feared he would die beneath her lips that night, and the very memory of it is delicious.)

He will confess that he once wrote an act in an opera demanding that she wear men's attire, just so he could picture himself undressing her. And she knows this, and one night, while they were between performances, she came to him in a full suit, and the wonder of it was almost more than he could bear. His fingers will never forget how it felt to slide her coat off, to unbutton her waistcoat and her shirt, one button at a time, and the shudder that ran through him when he brushed the skin beneath—

No. He cannot let himself think of that now. Perhaps it would be best to have a bath, and then return to considering the opera at hand.

Christine catches his eye as he rises, and flashes a smile at him as if she knows what he has been thinking, and he can feel his ears burn pink beneath her gaze.