His breath mists before him, hovers in the air a moment and dissipates. Words slip from his grasp, impossible to find when she presses herself so close to him, the warmth of her body spreading through him, forcing the chill from his blood. A fat snowflake falls in her hair and he brushes it away. It would not do to let her get cold.

"You are very handsome tonight," she murmurs, lips resting against his throat. He is all too aware of those lips, of how they brush against his pulse and make his heart ache for to hold her closer, tighter. He tightens his arms around her waist, presses a kiss to her forehead.

"I feel you may be biased, my love." He is, after all, not wearing his mask. She insisted he take it off up here, alone with her. I want to see my husband, she whispered, slipping her fingers slowly beneath its edges, not the face he presents to the world. There is no doubt that she is biased, or being kind, but when she smiles like that it is almost certainly biased.

She stands on her tip toes, stretches and presses her lips to the corner of his mouth, the good corner of his mouth. "Hardly biased," she breathes, breath warm against him and she kisses the twisted corner now, lingering where the lip curls up, "when I love you."

"Definitely biased." His words are firm but he is smiling now too, her lips teasing him as she kisses his cheek and he twists, catches those teasing lips with his own. She tastes of strawberries, of the champagne from the party going on in the Opera House beneath them, and she moans into his mouth, lips parting for to admit his tongue but he smiles and pulls back, breaks the kiss. Serves her right for teasing him with half-kisses.

She huffs and pouts, eyes twinkling. "To think I left a celebration like that for my teasing husband up here. I could be dancing now, Erik, and here I am on a cold, half-frozen rooftop with you."

Another time fear would flicker in his heart, a hollow aching for reassurance, but not tonight, not when she curls her warm fingers around the nape of his neck and kisses his throat. She is only teasing, the little minx.

Besides, the rooftop may be half-frozen, cast blue with the ice and falling snow, but she is wearing his cloak (and it becomes her so well, shoulders dusted white with snowflakes.) If anyone ought to complain of the cold it is him.

Well, if it is dancing that she wants…

A melody drifts to him, one of his own compositions. If their wedding had not been such a low-key affair he would have had it played for her, for their first dance. (He played it after, alone together, and the wine made him clumsy on the keys but she laughed and kissed him and said that it did not matter an ounce.)

He hums the first bar of it, each soft note so delicately-wrought and though it is not perfect now, either, demands an actual piano, her eyes get misty with tears and she leans her head against his chest, wraps her arms around his waist. He folds her in his own embrace, sways slowly on the spot. She moves with him, presses closer, and he leads her slowly across the rooftop, swaying gently. Each hummed note thrills in his bones, washes through him and it may not be perfect but it is perfect for them, perfect for this, the rooftop their ballroom, their kingdom, her heart beating against him, and he can feel it twining into the melody, altering it, each heartbeat, each breath, his own eyes stinging with tears. What did he ever do to deserve her, this treasure? How did he ever deserve her love? And his own heart swells so much he can barely breathe, barely keep to the melody, every fibre of him aching to hold her, just hold her, here, forever, and never let her go.

The melody dies away, and he stills, face buried in her curls, breathing hard. There is so much that he could say, so much and none of it is enough. She has changed him, saved him, made him a better man and all she asks is that he love her and be gentle. She demands nothing grandiose, nothing elaborate and he would pull each star from the heavens if she wished but she does not, all she wishes is for him, safe and well and happy, and he holds her close and kisses her hair and wishes that he had the words, had all of the words to tell her how precious, how wonderful, how necessary she is for him and have her believe him but he does not and he can only hold her, and hum imperfect melodies for her.

She shifts and sighs, and leans closer. "I know," she murmurs, her hand rubbing circles into his back. "I know."

He pulls back, gently, carefully, and bows his head, bringing their lips together. "Thank you," he breathes, and she does not ask what for, simply smiles into his mouth, the snow swirling softly around them to keep them safe from the world. And it is enough, this, to have her. It is enough.

A/N: Title taken from Lisa Hannigan's song 'Funeral Suit'. This is also my 200th fic on AO3.