A/N: Written for another "anonymous" tumblr prompt for Christine/Sorelli with chartreuse, candlelight, and records playing.

"D'you dance?"

"You're an idiot."

The chartreuse dwindles to a quarter-bottle, liquor glowing that golden-green in the flicker of the candles and the herb-scented giggles that tilt a little sideways. The power's gone out, storm on what would have been the edge of unnervingly strong if they hadn't started drinking right when the rain kicked in. It had started with the nice champagne and a mutual fuck it, life's too short, then the chartreuse out of the freezer, and Sorelli had brandished it like she was bestowing some great prize upon them both when she mixed the two together.

"The Queen of England drinks it like that," she'd said with unapologetic pride, as though they were just as noble, and Christine only snorted at that, already a little dizzy from the two glasses beforehand.

And now Christine fumbles with the battery-powered Victrola, mumbles under her breath while Sorelli contends with getting the David Gray out of its sleeve, and with monumental effort, they're rewarded—the bumpy grain of dust, stray cat hair for just a second or two before those first notes start.

It's a wobbly twirl when Sorelli grabs Christine by the hand and spins her around, a squeal and a laugh and a watch the candles! And they nearly trip over each other's feet, fuzzy socks slipping a bit on the wood floors, but they steady each other, breathless and pink-cheeked.

It's silly at first, exaggerated clumsiness and Christine's singing gone off-key—Erik would be cringing—and the candlelight makes it feel like a sleepover, those ones they used to have when they were teenagers and they wanted to scare each other with ghost stories in the dark, blanket draped over Sorelli's head like some sort of hooded witch with those Shakespearian hand gestures and those dark, dark eyes shining with all sorts of mischief. Christine would have to stop herself grinning too wide, it would ruin the drama of it, just like now, but she's trying and failing and neither of them mind.

But the giggles soon slow, thunder outside shaking the house but only slightly, impotently while they turn around the floor, Sorelli's tortoiseshell cat perched on the back of the couch and watching with her wide grey eyes.

Christine doesn't know where to look.

Because she'll trip if she looks at the candles. She'll get dizzier if she looks at her feet. But if she glances up and looks Sorelli in the face, she'll start to truly see her, and it's happened before, noticing the way her hair curls and frizzes just so. The way her lips have a habit of pursing when her eyes go sharp over some indignance, and the way they quirk when there's something she's scheming. The length of her legs when she dances—proper dances, the way she moves like she's liquid, or smoke, or just some ethereal thing that seems at once not Sorelli at all and the most Sorelli-like she's ever seen.

She falters a bit in her step, hyperaware of the hand that flies to her waist to steady her—a bit faltered on its own—and her hand tightens in Sorelli's, that warm and soft and elegant hand, and the piano starts.

This year's love had better last…

Christine closes her eyes, trying to will the alcohol away, when Sorelli's voice goes lower, barely audible above the music and the wind and the rain.

"You know I love you."

Of course she knows. Best friends love each other, that isn't news, and she's told her before after shows and over coffee and on birthdays. In little postcards they send across town, with little this made me think of you gifts. And she goes to say it, the of course I know, I love you too, when the dancing stops and she stumbles again and she's steadied again and she opens her eyes to find Sorelli staring with something like aching.

"No. I love you."

It takes a second to process it, brain gone syrupy with the chartreuse and Christine blinks like it'll clear it out but all she sees is Sorelli, those dark, dark eyes in the guttering candlelight.

If you love me, got to know for sure…

She opens her mouth with a fraction of a syllable, tries to say something but it won't come out so she closes it again. Thinks, thinks—

Fuck it, life's too short.

When she shifts her hand, their fingers lock together like they were built for it.

When she leans in halfway, her lips find the corner of Sorelli's mouth like they were never meant for anywhere else.

Sweep me off my feet…

Chartreuse and champagne. Arms around her, hands on shoulder blades, hands on hips, and she smells like violets, like irises underneath the sharp bite of alcohol. And Christine giggles when she feels the smile against her mouth, again when she's pulled into an off-beat rhythm.

Foreheads pressed together, they sway, feet and hands finding their proper places.

Singin' ain't this life so sweet?