He had spent his entire life waiting. For what, he was never sure before right this moment. He woke in the morning incomplete, despite the winning, ignorant smile on his face. He had often thought that, in his lifetime, he would be plenty happy. He would grow old and live because he never really thought that he would.
Die.
Now, how likely could that even be? The tense moments from before the beginning of their battle echoed emptily in his mind.
He had spent his entire life waiting and now he knew for what.
For her.
For Hannah.
His hand cupped her cheek, thumb stroking slowly beneath one of her eyes, brushing along the freckles that splashed across her alabaster skin, hair falling haphazardly beneath her head. His hand touched her heart. He waited. Like he'd waited all his life.
He remembered the way they'd met, bumping in the halls, a simple brush of arms that had made the both of them glance back, to meet eyes and feel the brilliant flush of electricity well in the air between them, the undeniable click that made them both stop, and face each other, and smile, like old friends or past lovers, broken to find a new start in another life where they could finally, after lifetimes of hardship, be happy together.
His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her face against his chest and curling around her protectively. The hard stone beneath him cut into his knees but he found that he was too numb to mind as much as he should have.
Trost burned around them, the sun beating down like a reminder that this was just another day, just another second in their painful lives, and yet she was cold.
He remembered the hot press of her lips against his cheek after dinner one night, the blood that had colored her cheeks a pretty pink in the glow of the lanterns around the dining hall. He had swallowed and bid her goodnight, an idiot's smile painted across his face as the moon rose, into the early mornings, until he had finally managed to stop rolling over in bed, managed to stop thinking about her, about Hannah, and had fallen asleep.
It had earned him too many yawns during training and a good lot of exhaustion, but he didn't regret it.
That was the first of many nights that had brought him to a startling realization. To this moment. He wanted her in every way. To love her, hold her hand when they walked in peace after they defeated the titans (because he believed, with all his heart, that they would), to lie with her before bed in their small cottage in the country, to care for a baby, cradled in her arms while he tried his hardest to prepare some semblance of dinner for his new family.
He wanted to marry her.
He wanted her love.
He held her in his arms.
He wept.
"Why can't we have that?" he whispered, and his voice cracked.
The blood that seeped into his clothes was still warm, but he found, pressing his lips to hers, that she was cold as ice. She was long gone.
One of her arms was gone, the entire right portion of her body torn away beneath her shoulder. Her beautiful, vibrant eyes were glassy, void of the life they had held before. He slid them shut and brushed loose strands of hair from her face where it wasn't crusted with blood.
The life he had pictured for them fell from his fingers and shattered. He would not marry Hannah. He would not fall asleep with her at his side. He would lie awake in a cold empty bed and he would cry thinking of her.
"Please, s-someone help me, I don't know what to do—"
He heard faint sobbing and realized quietly that it was bursting from his lips, through his clenched teeth.
"I can't just leave her here!" he cried to no one, desperation vibrant in his eyes, in the pull of his lips and the rimmed, red strike of his eyes.
He had waited for her all his life. He had waited to be happy with her. Had waited to finally be with her. But they were not the reincarnation of past lovers, coming together again to be happy. They were the broken couple, apart in their final moments without finding happiness.
His eyes blurred with tears. His voice croaked.
"She isn't breathing."