A/N: Written because of a scenario that rjdaae sent to hopsjollyhigh
I hope you all enjoy this piece of angst
If she had known, beforehand, she might have expected that it would feel somehow different. That the skin might be abraded, or rough. She knows what it is, though she has never seen one before, and her fingers lightly brush it, as if she might hurt him now.
(As if such a simple thing could possibly hurt her when it is in his skin.)
Her name, imprinted on his chest. A tattoo in black ink, the writing like nothing of his she has ever seen on paper. Stylised and delicate. A curling script, elegant, careful calligraphy.
How long has he worn it? Is it older than—before everything that—? Or did he only get it after she let him kiss her? Is it better, or worse, to know (even though she can never know, not anymore)?
Is it better, or worse, to know?
His eyelids barely flickered when she took his hand. He was already so very far gone, then, but his lips twisted when she kissed his knuckles, a weak whimper slipping from his throat, as if he would attempt to say her name but did not have the strength. And the Persian – Ismael, she knows now, Ismael — sat at his other side, cradling his other hand, the fingers curled limp.
"I found him like this," he whispered to her, voice low so Erik would not hear, could not be disturbed by them. "I am not certain if it is his heart or—" and his olive eyes were red-rimmed when they met hers, their glance meaningful as they drifted to the empty bottle of laudanum on the floor, and then back.
Words had no place in clarifying what he meant.
She has wondered the same thing.
And now Ismael's eyes are riveted to Erik's side, to ornate black script tattooed there in a foreign language, strange symbols she has never seen before.
She might ask, but it would feel like an intrusion. And after what has happened, she has not the right to Erik's secrets.
Besides, there is no need to ask when all she might ever need to know is written in Ismael's gaze.
She swallows and reaches over, lays her hand on top of his. His lips crease with her touch, as if they would smile but the edges are turned down, and a single tear trickles from his eye.
"I did not think he would remember," he murmurs, his voice half-strangled, "but Erik always had an excellent memory."
He bows his head, and kisses Erik ever so lightly on the forehead. She looks away, knows this is not for her to see, and when he reaches out and traces the letters on Erik's side, there is such a wealth of history, of longing, in the gesture that her heart twists and it is all she can do to fight back a fresh wave of tears.
This is what he has done to them, left them here like hollowed out wrecks. And when it hits her, this time, again, that he is gone, it pierces her so much more keenly than when the feeble pulse in his wrist flickered and died beneath her fingertips.
He is gone. He is gone and he loved them, loved them so much that he had it etched into his own skin forever, the sign of it to remain even after his heart stopped beating, even after his lungs ceased to draw breath. He loved them, and did not know how to show it.
He loved them, and they failed him.
It is as if the earth has shifted beneath her feet when her knees buckle. She gasps against the onslaught of tears, the pain doubling her over, and when a droplet falls on her name on his chest, she does not wipe it away.
He deserves to have that. And so much more.
He should have had it sooner.
A/N: Please review!