Stephanie Meyer owns the characters and some traits of Bella, Edward, Alice, Jasper, Emmett, Rosalie, Carlisle, Esme, and others. I have borrowed certain locales, and certain phrases from the Twilight series. I own the primary story.

Many thanks to il_suo_cantante and qjmom from Twi'd.

Just a few items to note:

On the writing front, this story will progress quite slowly time-scale wise. You'll note at least in the first half, there is a good bit overlapping in the POVS. Back when I wrote this, I'd just read Midnight Sun (what there is of it) and Twilight simultaneously, and at the time, I felt that showing both POVs added so much to the story. I wanted to try to mimic that reading experience in one fiction. Later, you'll see I change approaches somewhat, overlapping less.

On the plot front, you'll also see as the story progresses, ExB really jump into the relationship (read: I'm not saying they necessarily jump right into sex) without a lot of thought. They fall fast and hard. And, in the process, they forget to have some rather important discussions about both of their past lives. Part of what the story will (hopefully) show is the wonder AND the risk involved when giving up the heart so quickly [/sappy shit]

This story was my very first fanfic and really foray into creative writing period. So, as I was writing, I was learning. A lot. There are so many things that were I to write this fic now, I'd do differently / better. But such is the way with learning a new skill :) Just bear with me through my stumbling. This fic was a wonderful learning experience and really paved the way for all the writing I do now.

A Little Night Music

The title of the entire story itself is shamelessly ripped from my favorite Sondheim musical, strangely enough, also entitled "A Little Night Music." And just for random trivia, the musical's title is nothing but a translation of the title of a rather famous work by Mozart, Serenade No. 13 in G Major, or more popularly known as Eine kleine Nachtmusik. So, a rip of a rip. Now you know.

In keeping with the Broadway theme, chapters are named for individual songs from an assortment of musicals from across many decades. In some cases, the title and/or lyrics are rather apropos to the content of the chapter. In other instances, however, I just like the ring of it. Just wait, there will be a chapter at some point entitled Brush Up Your Shakespeare.

Additionally, there are numerous references to classical music, art, etc. These are a few of my hobbies.

Act I

EPOV

I walked down the semi-lit hall, en route to my favorite recording room. It was a small, quiet space, out of the way, where no one could disturb me. Earlier, I'd been so relieved to discover that it hadn't been previously reserved; this particular studio offered at least some modicum of privacy, but more importantly, the piano tuning and acoustics were simply sublime. And I'd been fingering these notes in my head all day long, turning my tune over and over, driving myself near crazy in the process. It would be a relief to finally hear what my brain had been concocting. Hopefully, it'd be worth all the effort it took to get here.

Though, if I were being honest with myself, I doubted that I'd be leaving any more satisfied than I had the previous three nights.

Pathetic. I could hear it! It was right there. Now why couldn't I just play it?

But night after night, I'd sit down to my goddess, praying for some reprieve, and of course, I'd play nothing. I'd curse her, grit my teeth, and pull my hair, but still nothing.

So, I knew that I'd end up settling for mimicking the masters, Chopin, Liszt, Rachmaninoff, playing for hours, until I could no longer hear my stupid little ditty. Of course it never lasted. Hence, here I was, yet again. No doubt tonight would be a repeat performance.

Hello Frederic, nice to see you, again.

I supposed that I could have gone back to my apartment instead of coming all the way out here… again. After all, I did have an exquisite Steinway, circa 1920's, gorgeous mahogany and ivory, with tones that vibrated you to the pit of your stomach. A pity I never played her.

I shook my head. Always running and hiding. It wasn't like I was afraid to go back to my place, my home. Who was I kidding? Of course I was afraid. Ever since I'd made the mistake of trying to be polite and speaking to my neighbor, The Slut, capital letters, she'd pursued me to the seventh circle of hell. She'd been suggestive before, with the stares and barely there strips of clothing, but now, god, fucking relentless.

My friends thought I was nuts for not taking her up on her offers. If they only knew how she worked, how she stalked her prey, they'd run too.

Just yesterday, I'd answered a knock on my door, only to find her wearing nothing but an open, red silk robe that barely covered her ass. Before I'd gotten the door half way open, she'd already pushed herself in, slamming her body into me, trying to kiss me, to touch me. Who knew where that mouth had been? I shook my head again. Disgusting. Aggressive women were hot, but Tanya was on a whole different level. I never thought that I'd be so unnerved by a 115 pound, 5'6" big breasted blonde. Joking aside, scared shitless was more like it.

Not that she wouldn't be a good lay. Hell, I'm sure she could more than entertain me. But I just couldn't handle her constant hounding. If I gave in, no doubt that there would be all varieties of hell and misery to pay afterwards. She'd probably be the type to take a knife to her conquests once she finished with them. She just could not take a hint, or an obvious statement of disdain for that matter. I could never hit a woman, but I had to admit, a swift backhand has crossed my mind on multiple occasions. I sighed to myself, thinking that if this doesn't get any better, I was going to have to move.

Scary bitch. I shuddered a bit at the thought of dealing with Tanya post-fuck, and quickly shoved those thoughts away.

So, here I was, ten o' clock at night, on a Friday, walking down that same, long, dimly lit hallway, silently humming to myself and praying that tonight would be the night that my scattered brain would unleash my magical music. Magical music. What. The. Fuck. I am such a girl, I thought.

I looked through the one-way hall windows into the recording rooms as I passed, not that I really expected to see anyone this late. Normal people were out having a good time, or were at least with someone they cared for. It was better this way, really, less chance of anyone seeing me here, wondering what I was doing here. I didn't want to deal with that. Not now. Not tonight. I hated being recognized. I hated not having anonymity. I hated people sucking up to me all the time. I hated that I could trust no one. I hated it all. I wished that I could just hide and play my piano.

Most of the rooms were dark, a few here and there were partially lit by electronics or a random music stand spot. Dark and quiet. Perfect. I noticed down on the right, all the way at the end, across from my reserved room, a single window shined brightly. As I approached, I wondered if I'd see another crazy eyed would-be musician trying to put sound to record, or just an empty room where someone forgot to hit the lights. I wasn't sure which was preferable. In some ways, I liked the idea of solitude. On the other hand, it would be nice to see that I'm not alone, that I'm not so strange for killing my nights over some random tones floating around in my head. As I glanced in, I stopped cold in my tracks. I saw neither an empty room nor crazy eyes. I saw her.

I stared for god only knows how long through that glass. I couldn't not look at her. She was breathtaking. She was petite, couldn't be more than 5'2" considering how she sat close to the edge of the piano bench. Her waist was tiny and her body delicate, yet still with soft curves in all the right places. Without thought, I felt the heat in my abdomen and the unconscious twitch in my boxers. I didn't want to deal with that right now. So, I quickly moved my eyes away from her hips and waist upwards to her arms and hands. I noticed how her palms gracefully arched over the tops of the keys, her slender fingers lightly tracing unplayed notes.

And her face. She looked like an angel, with perfectly smooth and pale cream skin, a slight blush high on her cheekbones, and features offset by a long, wavy, chestnut mane. Her lips were pale pink, slightly pouty, and she was lightly biting her lower lip. I wanted to kiss her.

I wanted to see her eyes, but she had them closed for some reason I didn't understand, hiding them from me with her nearly translucent shimmering lavender lids. I could only assume they would be brown, my least favorite eye color, considering her hair color. I could imagine them being blue, my favorite. Brown was always so flat and boring. Hazel was plain. And green, well, I saw enough green looking into the mirror every day. But blue. Blue eyes were always such a mystery and could vary so greatly. Blue could be light, vibrant and piercing, or dark and tumultuous with unfathomable depth. I pleaded, Oh, angel, open your eyes.

Wait, why was I obsessing over the eyes of someone I hadn't even met? I shook my head, and dry washed my face with my hands, trying to pull myself out of this trance. What the fuck? What the hell was going on with me? Why was I standing here like an idiot? It was just a girl, a random, albeit beautiful, girl. Yet, I still couldn't tear my gaze from her face. I just stood there, and stared at her. I pleaded again, Open your eyes… please. Let me see your soul.

She wouldn't grant me my wish. I don't know why she kept her eyes closed like that. Maybe she was torturing me. Abruptly, her fingers stiffened, and a slight furrow appeared between her eyes, as if she was thinking about something difficult or unpleasant. How frustrating this was. What was troubling her? Before another thought passed through my mind, she began to play.

But I couldn't hear her, stuck here in the hallway. And I wanted to, I wanted to hear what songs she heard in her head, what moved her. Luckily, the system room door was unlocked, so I slipped in, knowing she wouldn't be able to see me through the one-way glass partition any more than she could have seen me through the hall window. I quickly found the right buttons on the console, and suddenly, the small room came to life.

She played… well. No, she played like she was born to play, like the keys were just extensions of her hands. Her fingers deftly crossed octaves, pulling forth deep and harmonious chords that stirred something within my core, an almost sorrowful longing.

Then, with no warning, she opened her mouth to sing. And time just stopped. The voice from this tiny creature moved me to near tears. It was low and silky smooth, but had a power and strength that I would never have anticipated. I was mesmerized by the sound, so much so that it took me a moment to realize she was forming words. As she moved through the first verse, I slowly began to register the lyrics. They were torturous, words filled with the pain and suffering of losing something more valuable than your own life. As she paused between verses, a tear streaked down her cheek. As she sang the chorus and stretched into higher ranges, agony ripped across her features.

She finally opened her eyes. Blue. I knew it. Midnight. Endless, fathomless, the color of a deep sea, fringed with thick black lashes. Magnificent. But her sadness penetrated me, her voice, her tears, her eyes. I wanted to sob. I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to do something to rid her of whatever it was causing her this pain. In all my twenty-four years, I'd never felt anything like this before.

Yet, through all this, I also recognized that this may have been one of the most beautiful pieces I'd ever heard.

I had to meet her; I wanted to know her. As she began playing strains of another melancholy composition, I internally debated on how I could even begin to approach this divine creature. I'd never been what one would call a social butterfly. And I'd always been a bit nervous around women, especially ones that intimidated me. But I rarely had to approach them, as being who I am, they always seemed to come to me. Here was a woman that didn't even know I existed, and I didn't know what to do. I didn't want her to know me. I didn't want her preconceived notions of who I was and what I was about. She was an angel, and I was, well, me. I imagined her taking one look at me, and then telling me where to go.

Hell, I'd been spying on her these last twenty minutes with no regret at all. She'd probably call security. Fuck.

But I couldn't let her get away. So, I took a minute to gather myself. Ok, I took five minutes. But finally, I strode out, as confidently as I could pretend to be, into the hall, and quietly entered the recording room without her noticing. I nervously leaned by the door to wait for her to finish playing her third song.

As I waited, I observed her, taking mental notes of her, trying to understand more about her. She was different than most women, that much was clear. If I'd had to guess, she looked to be close to my age, maybe younger. Her posture was confident, well bred. She brought little with her, only a black messenger bag. A book was poking out of the back pocket. So, she was a reader. Not surprising. I was dying to find out what types of books she read, what interested her.

She was stylish, yet she didn't seem to adhere to normal fashion rules. Her closely fitted, black, long sleeve shirt was see through, tempting me to look at more than I should at the moment, especially considering my lower region's earlier responses. Underneath, she wore a bright pink tank, which created an interesting visual underneath the black. Her dark jeans were cut well, obviously expensive, highlighting her curves perfectly, yet not tight or 'trampy' looking, as my sister would say. And of course, she'd be wearing black "skater boi" tennis shoes. As with makeup, she wore little in the way of jewelry, a simple black leather cuff on her wrist, small silver earrings, and a slim black rope around her neck. Adorable. Quirky. Perfect.

Hmm I didn't think I'd ever paid this much attention to a woman's clothes before. No, indeed I hadn't. Again, what the hell was going on with me? I'm pathetic, I noted.

As she played the final chords, I thought to myself how extraordinarily talented she was, for each of her songs was so vastly different, yet each was a masterpiece, worthy of any record label. And she was beautiful… and obviously, intelligent. Yes, I was intimidated and nervous. In fact, I couldn't decide what I wanted to do more: throw up, run away, or kiss her. Well, here I was in the room with her; I needed to at least try to speak. I tried to encourage myself, Let's try to be smooth. We can do this. Smooth. And light. No scaring the angel away.

As she pulled her hands away from the keys, I softly called from my spot against the wall, in what I hoped to be a confident voice, "That was absolutely incredible." Oh, if she only knew...

Chapter 1: Angel of Music, The Phantom of the Opera