A/N: Just another Erik/Meg drabble. I was listening to Vanessa Carlton's "White Houses" and I thought of this. That's where the title comes from.
Mon amour- my love
Title: All Too Sweet to Last
Pairing: Erik/Meg, Erik/Christine implied
Summary: Meg always knew that it was all too sweet to last. She just wishes it would have lasted a little longer.
Disclaimer: I don't own PotO.
The little ballerina sits down on the stool. She drags her long, black braid over her shoulder and starts to take it out. Her feet hurt, but she doesn't care. She's hungry, but she doesn't care. She hurts inside too much to care.
Meg always knew that it was all too sweet to last. She just wishes it would it would have lasted a little longer. Maybe this pain would be dulled a little. Or maybe not, she thinks, as she pulls her slippers off. Maybe I would hurt more, but I would hurt so much that I would go numb and then not be able to feel the pain.
Meg bites her lip and she feels a drop of blood form on her chin as she desperately fights back the tears. She hasn't cried since she was ten, and she forgets how much it hurts. Her fingers shake as she unties her slippers.
It's all Christine's fault. Meg thinks, furiously. It's her fault. She got in the way. She ruined it. But, deep down, Meg knows that she's wrong, because Christine didn't know any better and she didn't cause this hurt. My God, this hurt. Meg gently touches her chest and winces.
There are footsteps behind her, but she doesn't notice. It's only when she feels the hand on her shoulder, when she realizes that she's not alone. The hand belongs to her mother, Madame Giry, and the woman gazes down at her. But, instead of the cold, stern glance Meg is so used to, her mother's eyes are soft and sad. "Meglet…" she says, almost kindly, using the nickname she called Meg when the girl was a baby.
"Oh, Maman," Meg cries, throwing her arms around her mother, her sobs racking her body. "It hurts," she weeps, her face muffled in her mother's shoulder. She feels her mother's hand, slowly stroking her hair.
"Shh, chéri, it's all right," Mme. Giry whispers, gently, as she takes Meg's face in her hands. "It will stop hurting soon, mon amour. Maybe not now, but it will." Then, she glides away, and Meg sits down again.
She doesn't notice the figure walking silently overhead. She doesn't hear the familiar whoosh of its cape, or it whispering, her name, over and over."Meg…" She doesn't note the stench of Death and she doesn't smell the rose in its hand. And she doesn't feel when one of the rose petals falls and touch her shoulder, oh so gently, like a kiss on her shoulder. She's too wrapped up her her hurt to care.