His tongue and throat are painfully dry, cracked, eyelids feel as if they are sandpaper. The low light, even with his eyes closed, makes his head feel as if it is two streets too wide. And yet there is a hand, resting against his cheek, which is so very gentle and cool, and he never wants it to go away.
He must make some noise, because the hand disappears and he feels the rim of a cup pressed to his lips, liquid warm, seeping into that slight gap where one lip meets the other. Lemon tea, with honey. He sips at it and swallows, the mouthful heavenly as it slips down his throat. The cup vanishes, what feels like a cold towel laid on his forehead, and that sweet hand resting against his throat.
"Sleep, my darling," the voice of an angel murmurs in his ear, soft and so very soothing. "Just sleep." And who is he to disobey the divine? Mist enshrouds him, leaching the pain, and all he knows is darkness for a long time.
The next time he wakes, or at least, knows he wakes, his tongue no longer sticks to the roof of his mouth and his head has returned to its customary size. Carefully, cautiously, he blinks open his eyes to find his dear Christine looking down at him with such concern written all over her face.
"How are you feeling?" she asks, voice soft.
For a moment, his lips refuse to move and then he murmurs, "Better."
"Good." Sparks blaze in her eyes and she slaps his cheek. "You're never drinking like that again!" His cheek stings and he grimaces, flexing his jaw. Almost instantly a look of remorse and sadness crosses her face. She touches his cheek gently with her soft fingertips, and grazes his skin with her lips. "I never want to see you suffering like that again."
Ah, yes. The aching head and sandpaper eyes. His poor Christine, always so worried about him. But there's more to how upset she is than simply watching him suffer; the tears in her eyes betray as much. And it's more, he's certain, than the wound in his hip – now making itself known again. It's not a serious gash, really, a gash which looks worse than it is, albeit he drank an exorbitant amount of whisky for the pain and won't be able to sing until his throat recovers from the abuse and –
He's not used to drinking whisky. In fact, he never drinks any alcohol, with the exception of last night. He cannot risk his voice like that. Perhaps…perhaps he said something, something terribly indiscreet, which has upset her.
He raises his hand and brushes his fingers gently over the tear that escapes the corner of her dear blue eye. "My darling, did your Erik say something…foolish while he was drunk?"
Her lips tremble, creasing, and she catches his hand as he draws it away, pressing a soft kiss to his palm. "Oh, Erik. Don't worry about it. Not now. It doesn't matter."
It does matter. It matters so very much. He upset her, somehow, of course it matters. He cannot bear causing such tears in her eyes. "Of course it matters," he murmurs. "You would not be crying if it did not matter. What did I say that hurt you so?"He smooths his fingers carefully over her creased brow. "Please."
"You-" she swallows, "you told me that when you're de-gone, when you're gone, that you don't want me to be lonely. You told me to marry Raoul, and have his children and be happy, as soon as I get out of mourning, no less! But Erik," she lays her head on his chest, right over his heart, and like this he can't see the tears dripping from her eyes but he can feel them dampening his shirt and suddenly hates himself for voicing those thoughts aloud, however much they plague him in his darker moments, "you forget how much I love you. I might have loved Raoul once, I'll admit I'm not certain now if it was love or infatuation, but it does not compare to how I feel for you. How could I marry him after your- How could I do that?" Her voice cracks. "You're not dying, Erik, not for another thirty years! I won't let you." Her stubbornness is childlike, and yet the love that it evidences makes his heart ache.
He shifts his hand to stroke her curls, and decides against reminding her that as old as he is, and with all that he's been through, that five years is ambitious for him, never mind thirty. Those odd beats his heart misses do not signify a long life ahead of him. How can he not worry about her future? He'll grant that it was foolish to suggest such thoughts while inebriated after stitching a wound, but still, surely she must understand. She has to understand that he would worry for her after. She is a strong woman, his Christine, a brave warrior. And yet, it would be cruel for him to not provide for her for after his death, and if that involves suggesting she marry the Vicomte, what does it matter?
(He cannot bear the thought of another man, any man, looking after his Christine and loving her if he cannot. But it would be wrong of him to forbid her to marry again, to condemn her to be alone. And if something were to happen to him, he would trust any man but the Vicomte to look after her. Yes, Iman would be there, would do everything to protect her, but he could not give her that love.)
Tears prickle his eyes. Sometimes, he forgets how very much she loves him, grows afraid that he's forcing her to be with him. But she does, she loves him and the thought of losing him upsets her. Poor, dear Christine. He'll have to guard his tongue better in future.
"I did not wish to upset you," he murmurs around the lump in his throat. "I never wish to upset you."
She moves, and kisses his forehead, pressing her cheek to his. Their tears mingle, and they don't speak, not for a long time, but they do not need to, not really. This closeness, their two bodies pressed together. What more do they need? What more do they want? His heart aches, feeling as if he is overflowing with all of the love that he feels for her and her for him.
If he died in this moment, her arms around him, he would not object.
(He cannot tell her that. Not now.)
He settles for a mumbled, "I love you" and she presses her lips to his in a soft kiss, an "I forgive you."
He dozes a while, or think he does, and when he wakes she is nuzzled into his neck, one leg hitched around his, careful to avoid his wounded hip. He entwines his fingers with her hair, and sighs.
"What else did I ramble about when I took leave of my senses?" he whispers, letting his eyes slip closed. Even with the pain smarting in his hip, he has never been so comfortable before in his life.
"You called me an angel," she mumbles, "and recited Persian poetry. You made dear Iman cry once he was certain you were all right by telling him that you've never had such a very dear friend, and would not trust anyone else to watch out for me with the exception of Raoul. And you sang a ridiculous song about goblins and fairies." She smiles against him. "It was all quite amusing, actually, until you had to start talking about dying." She kisses his neck, and sighs. "I don't want you to worry about me, Erik, all right? I'll look after myself if…if the time comes." Her voice cracks, and she takes a shuddering breath. "I don't want you worrying about me."
"I can't help it. My dear Christine, of course I worry about you."
"I know, my darling. I know. But it does not bear thinking about now. You just rest, and get well. The sooner you're up and about again the better." She holds him closer, and he wraps an arm around her waist, and the whole world could burn down around them, and they wouldn't care, not now, when they can hold each other as close as this.