His kiss tastes like ashes.
It lies upon her lips as though Death's mouth had pressed against her own, as if she'd kissed a skull. The grins are similar.
She wakes up sweating.
She doesn't recognize him anymore. He's older. Frightening. Seven years is a long time, especially when it's spent in a prison cell. It's hardened him in some ways, and broken him in others, and he was so difficult to pin down in the first place, so that the man she has known for her entire life stands before her with shadows in his eyes.
"I thought you were dead," he says, and his hand, it hesitates before he touches her. Palm against her cheek, catching the corner of her mouth. For an instant, she wants nothing more than to pull his wrist against her lips.
And for him, it had been seven years.
He is abruptly too close, staring down at her, foreheads together, eyes wide open. She can't breath.
"I wanted to die," he whispers, and she can feel his lips move against her own, the subtle tap of teeth and tongue, until her stomach groans. She can smell the graveyards, the rain.
"I wanted to die," he says again, "And the only reason I didn't is because they never found your body. So I was allowed to torture myself with not knowing. With enduring. With carrying your memory, so that I could rip into the salving forgetfulness. Because there was always the chance that I might see you again.
"And now," his eyes begin to close, eye lashes against her own, "You're here."