Nadir can almost believe he's dead already, watching that still body lying in that bed. So deep is Erik in his unconsciousness the only sign that he's still living is the rise and fall of his chest, too fast even with the morphine in his veins. He watches it absently, the stirring of the coverlet an odd reassurance.

At least it's not like last time, when the poison eventually forced Erik into a coma from which nothing could rouse him. This time, even unconscious, the fingers of his right hand twitch in Nadir's grip, as if trying to pluck the strings of his violin or tap the keys of his pipe organ, that music that runs through his blood fighting to come out. Though when he wakes, he's delirious as often as not, from the morphine more so than the pain, and it's so difficult to know which is worse – the dreadful stillness of before, or having those mismatched eyes meet Nadir's own and look so utterly lost.

Death is such a cruel mistress. What Nadir wouldn't give now to hear that cutting wit, to see the snarling curve of those lips. But even when Erik wakes, he hasn't the energy for such things, can barely whisper for the morphine, too tired even to berate Nadir for being so clumsy with the needle.

In truth, Erik hasn't had the energy for much since he tore the house apart, as if that final whirlwind spent all of the effort let in him, draining him of his life so that he may be dead already. And then, not even a handful of days ago, when Nadir arrived to find him on the point of collapse, struggling to breathe. He shudders at the memory, Erik's words echoing in his mind.

You should have let me die.

Such a Fate, dying of a failing heart five storeys below an opera house. It's almost amusing, but Nadir can't bring himself to smile. Not now, not here. At least the mask hides the grey pallor of grave illness from his view.

Ever so gently, he brushes his lips over those pale, limp fingers, and tries to tell himself it's just so Erik knows he isn't alone, knows that he will be missed. Nadir's eyes prickle uncomfortably, and he blinks hard against the threatening tears. It would be so easy to give in to them, to open the floodgates and weep over the frail body in this bed but Erik is not yet dead and would probably consider it undignified.

He did not cry before, in Mazanderan, but things were different then, so very different. It was so sudden and besides, he had to maintain a certain level of composure for Reza. Dear Reza, his poor boy. It's been so long and yet there's still that hollowness beneath his heart that nothing could ever hope to fill. It's closed over somewhat, not as gaping as it once was, and yet it lingers, aching like a ghost, the shadow of a limb that's been removed.

Erik whimpers, low in his throat, his lips twisting. The fingers that have been so still tighten around Nadir's own, his whole body seeming to stiffen for the briefest moment. Nadir smooths back his hair gently and whispers Allah-knows-what, the only response he gets a sharp inhale. A shiver runs through Erik's body, almost a convulsion. The tension bleeds from him as it passes, a soft sigh slipping past his lips, jaw slackening and fingers loosening. He is suddenly so still, his chest not even rising, that Nadir fears he's passed from this life as easily as that and fumbles to find a pulse in that scarred wrist, the scars thin ridges beneath his fingers. Just as he feels the feeble twitch of the delicate veins lurking beneath the skin, Erik sucks in a ragged breath and coughs, gasping for air.

The world rights itself, tilting back into place on its axis. So that's how easily, how mercifully, the end could come. Why was he afraid that it was the end? Surely it would be a kindness for Erik if he slipped away as easily as that, no seizure wracking his body, none of the crushing pain of his earlier attacks. If his heart simply stopped beating, with only the barest murmur of discomfort? There can't be anything wrong in that!

Nadir could help him. He should help him. Erik once helped Reza, after all, spared him a world of suffering and granted him a painless death. He could do the same for Erik. All it would take would be too much morphine. The solution is in his pocket, waiting. He could fill the hypodermic several times, drain the bottle, slide the needle beneath Erik's skin, it wouldn't matter where. He can't find a vein in his right arm anymore (all collapsed, Erik whispered what seems centuries ago but can only be a handful of days at most), but he can still find some in Erik's left arm. It's not as if he could feel it anyway. He complained of it being numb the last time that he was half-lucid. There are veins in his wrists, they would do. The artery in his neck. He's dying anyway, what does it matter? He wouldn't wake, and the morphine would simply ease him away. It would be painless.

It would be the right thing to do, to help him like that.

(Nadir could sit behind him, prop Erik's head on his shoulder, forehead resting against the pulse in his own throat. Slip the needle into his arm again and again, each time carrying a fresh dose of the drug, and hold him as he relinquished his grip on the world. Cradle him close and whisper soft comforts into his ear. Gently take the mask off so that they're skin on skin. It would be a peaceful death, and he's longed for peace so much through his life. The opium gave it to him once, and then the morphine. It would be the greatest gift that Nadir could give to his greatest friend, to give him a peaceful painless death.)

He can't do it. It would be the right thing to do; he has no qualms about that. But to steal Erik's life from him like that . . . He can't do it, he won't. It's profoundly selfish of him, but he needs to see those eyelids flicker half-open, needs to see those golden mismatched irises at once so dark and so glowing, needs to hear that velvet voice, even if it's only mumbling nonsense. He can't simply release him from this in his sleep, he can't.

A tear creeps past his defences, trailing down his cheek to land in a small damp circle on the coverlet. And suddenly it's as easy as all that to give in, Erik's limp hand pressed to his lips. To hell with the dignity of not crying! It's Erik's fault for dying anyway.