5Crisp breeze and crackle of leaves underfoot, the sweet scent of autumn. Mittens and a wine-red scarf twined around chilled flesh, a beret perched on chocolate curls and a hand – black gloved, long fingered – resting charmingly above hers, arm in arm.
Erik called it a stroll, their stroll and it was hard not to smile at the look of his shadowed delight at using the mundane title. Despite the creeping fingers of October's wind, which rustled the husks of star-shaped leaves like sparks from a dying fire, lifting them in circles, it was an evening of streetlamps and rectangular stars that shone from hulking buildings.
"Have you ever thought about moving to the country, Erik?"
Powered breath was released into the air, "Sometimes, though I admit to reaping the benefits of anonymity in cities. People are so terribly nosy in hamlets,"
Christine laughed, "And they aren't in cities? We've hardly had a break from releasing our first album, to the fact that I'm Cinderella in the Met. Exactly how many people from the press have we had to avoid?"
"Touché," his fedora titled towards her, "But we agreed that the city would be easier for you to continue your career without an hour commute,"
"I know," Christine conceded, dropping her gaze to the pavement, "I've always had this idea of going back to Sweden someday…It's silly, really," she trailed off when Erik's attention shifted her, cheeks numb and red from the cold.
"You may tell me anything you wish – surely you understand that by now," dark eyes affixed her and a gentle squeeze around her mitten urged her to continue.
Christine gave him a soft smile, halting at the sight of a particularly enticing window display, focusing on the shiny Thomas The Tank Engine and Power Rangers figurine set, down to a ballerina puppet suspended on strings and a clock frozen in time. Her fingers sent back a reassuring pulse.
"I've always wanted to go back to my roots. Once Papa left when he was in his twenties, wanting to find a better career in France, he used to tell me stories of when he was young. From selling papers to polishing shoes in the street for rich men, standing outside the Kungliga Operan to catch a glimpse of the sopranos that brought music to life. He always wanted to go back –" it was too easy to lean into the man beside her, losing herself in the scent of him, the press of their bodies and the row of buttons pressing against her head, instead of of acknowledging the swirling tornado inside.
The understanding arm that wrapped around her shoulders spoke the words she couldn't say.
"And now you wish to seek out that history once more," Erik murmured, the edge of his bone-hued mask pressed against her crown of curls, "There is no shame in that, my dear,"
A half-smile pulled at her lips, "I know that I have a distant relative there, I have Pa's old address book…" her brows furrowed, "Somewhere,"
"We can always re-negotiate the terms of your contract here. I have heard that there might be those in Stockholm who are looking for sopranos with talent such as yours," a leather thumb wiped a glistening drop away from her cheek, "If you wish, we may depart right now to pursue this venture of yours,"
"Don't be silly, it'd takes weeks to pack up and plan it all," a smile cracked through, despite all the emotions stirred within her when discussing matters concerning her father, "We'll stay at least until this production is through...Maybe then we can think about it,"
"If you are content, my love, then so am I," fingers played with a curl, "Wherever you are, I will follow,"
Christine chuffed, half turning so that she could look into his soulful eyes, heart tightening at the clear adoration that resided there, "My man, always so poetic. I can't compete,"
Breath whistled through his lips, still after months unable to still the elated gasps of admiration for their status.
"Yours," he breathed, hands curling protectively over hers, "Always yours,"
Christine tried to swallow but was unable to over the lump that resided there. After everything, through thick and thin, life and death and a show that had nearly torn them to tatters, they were together at last. It seemed impossible. Accidental in a world of coincidental. It had been an accident to find themselves in love. Simply an accident.
"I love you, you know," she whispered, struggling not to push him back under the streetlamp, tear off that mask, kiss him senseless, in public view, just to feel, to proclaim to the world I love him, and I don't care who knows it!
I love him and I want to reach the ends of the world, with him leaning against my shoulder on a train, find a ship heading to Neverland, stay cosy in a cabin under the earth, or slow dance under lantern-lit blossom trees in Japan, witness the beauty of Madame Butterfly in Northumberland. Drink each other in, like wine in one breath.
I love him. I love him and it sets me free.
"And I you, my dearest, most beautiful, Christine," his breath purred in her ears, and suddenly, despite the pedestrians and the cars, and the watching stars, those lips encased hers, a kiss so strong that his desire robbed her knees of strength. Too soon he parted, gaze only upon her, adoring the way her flush only grew at his attention.
"Shall we head home?" the gallant knight offered his arm once more, the shadow of his fedora hiding the gleam of his eyes.
"Oh, indeed we shall," the whisper left her mouth coyly, and replaced her hand once again on his arm.
And like that, they finished their stroll...Never once looking back.
Finding the will of fluff and autumn - here we are a year later with my FLUFFTOBER piece. :D Thank you and enjoy my dear phriends.
May the Ghost of Autumn be with you.