And he is so still in his bed of roses, the crimson petals littering his chest, burning against the crisp white of his shirt.
So still, and so perfect. A marble sculpture laid out for her wonder.
Lovely, truly. A bridegroom on his wedding night. The torn rose petals all that's left of his bride's bouquet.
She wanted to understand him, to study the beating of his heart, craved to know the root of his love for her, that fault inherent which caused his precious voice to break so desperately on her name.
He collapsed before her, once, tears trickling down his cheeks, his heart betraying him, spiteful in its tightness. He choked on the air, and she swore she would protect him, would make it so his heart could not mock him again.
His own admirable knife.
And now he is perfect, sleeping so peacefully amongst his roses, pale lips tinged blue and ever so slightly parted. So silent and cold as she slips her tongue between them, heedless of the thin scarlet petal at the corner of his mouth, as if a rivulet. He is always cold, why should the roses warm him?
She wanted to help him. That's what brought her here. She wanted to make it so that she could leave him, and he could breathe without his heart twisting for her. Compassion runs through her veins, everyone's always said so, and this is no different. One thoughtful gift, the end to his misery. She always wanted to take his pain away.
That's why she gave him the roses, their thorns carefully plucked off, pinched between her fingers, a twist and the nail slices through the base. Dismemberment in the name of comfort.
He's always loved beauty, desired it, ached for it. What a pity that he cannot see the beauty she's made of him. He would love it.
Her finger crushes the rose petal, smearing it to mar the perfect porcelain of his hollow cheek.
And still he does not stir. His perfect eyelids do not flicker. The delicate blue veins living just beneath his skin a web, painted there with an artist's brush, thin as if etched in while the plaster was only half-dry, offsetting the white marble so that it glows now in the darkness.
His nimble fingers do not dance across invisible keys in the air. Such long fingers, such a practiced movement. How she clutched those fingers to her lips and kissed them, promising him that it would be all right, he would be all right, she would make it all right, dear, I promise I will, just hold on a little longer and I will take the pain away, I swear it.
His shirt is heavy with the roses, wet. She had to bring them to him fresh, otherwise they would not hold their colour so, and the sap is soaking into him. That is all.
Hands lying limp at his sides, pale fingers so slender and silent, restful, slight gaps between each digit and her lips tingle for to kiss them, to pay them proper worship.
He is sleeping. Sleeping off her cutting the love out of him. It was truly the kindest thing she could do, to let him sleep without his morphine and without suffering. She should have done it months ago, and spared him so much agony. Carefully, she plants a kiss on his icy forehead, his body heavy in her arms, head lolling against her chest.
His slack face holds no horror for her now, and in truth has not in such a long time. Why should it, when it is the face of her husband? She's kissed it, and trailed her fingers lightly over it, learning every hollow, every crevasse, every gap where there could be something missing. What others might regard as imperfections, she can observe now as essential for making up the whole. They look but they do not truly see, and were they to look now they could not deny the utter brilliance of her creation, would have to concede her kindness.
She should sing. He would like that. It would worm its way into his dreams, soft and gentle, fingertips grazing over a wound. A parting gift, now he need feel no love for her.
Softly, her voice drifts through the air, shrouding them both in its secrets, here in this bed of roses.