A/N: As noted, this is a Phantom Halloween fic, so beware that while its rating is not for smut it is for violence and implied drug use. Also, if you enjoy it please take a quick trip to the Phantom Halloween Tumblr page and give it a like/reblog. Thanks! And of course, comments are always welcome.
Also, this is a companion piece to an older fic of mine, 'Marriage Bed of Roses', which is basically Christine's perspective and is unnecessary to read unless you want further context.
He hears her, feels her, raises his hand and brushes fingertips over her misty cheek, soft in the impression of candlelight. One silver teardrop catches on her eyelash, and a sharp bolt of pain pierces his heart at the sight of it. She should not have to shed more tears over him. He has hurt her quite enough, brought her so much pain. She should…she should be relieved to see him now.
He tries to tell her so, tries to speak the words but his lips refuse to cooperate, a soft groan slipping past them. She shushes him softly, presses her lips to his forehead.
"Hush now, darling. Hush. Just rest." It's all he can manage to nod his head faintly at the words, hand falling from her cheek to lie limp on the sheets beside. Her fingers are so cold, twined with his own, his own ice seeping into her, one more way that he has failed her, hurt her, not been the husband she needs.
With a great effort heheaves a breath, eyes stinging. "Oh…Chris-tine."
Her fingers stroke his hair, lips soft against the corner of his mouth. They are all he can feel, all he can know, her here now with him. All he needs. His eyes – so heavy he cannot, cannot keep focus on her. She swims before him, dizzying him, a wave of nausea making him gasp and the pain sears in his chest a moment before abating. With infinite care he feels her disentangle their fingers, set his hand down, her touch icy at his throat. A brief frown furrows her brow and she leans in, kisses the pulse in his throat, her lips so very warm as she takes his hand again, squuezes it. He swallows against another flicker of pain, lets his eyes close. She hums a soft lullaby, an old melody unfamiliar to him but there's something there, something soothing (maybe because it is her, her voice, her lips) and he can feel himself come unmoored, drift on the river of morphine...
For a long time there is only drifting, peaceful drifting, his blood thick as honey and the world silky-soft, her breath on his cheek, her fingers at his throat. Each breath comes slow, a lifetime spent with her in each pause, the music of…a choir of angels echoing through the breeze. He sighs, leans into her, her fingers light against his scalp.
Pain lances beneath his ribs, sharp and tearing and he can't breathe, can't breathe, tastes blood, iron in his throat, feels it trickle hot from his mouth. His lips form her name, gasp, choke, and all the while he can hear her, softly murmuring, "You're all right now, Erik, my love. You're all right. You can rest. The pain will not last very long. It is only your admirable knife. Just rest. I'll be here. I promise."
He heaves a breath that catches in his throat, eyes fluttering open and it is only Christine, fading, only Christine…
His fingers twitch against the soft cotton of her sleeve, and in one whimper between breaths, he is gone.