A/N: Written for an Anon who requested this prompt: Basorexia - An overwhelming desire to kiss. Plus, this is my 100th posted phic! Whoo! Go me
His lips tingle for to kiss her. It would not be so difficult. He has not the strength to pull himself up, to press his lips to hers, and the room would spin around him, topple them both, if he had. But if he curls his fingers around the nape of her neck, draws her gently down, he could…find her then, could feel her lips on his...
His fingers refuse to obey him, too tired, and heavy and her hand is so safe for them, a sanctuary for them to hide. The new needle prick in the crook of his arm stings at the very thought of moving, and he cannot even curl his fingers around hers, but it does not matter. She squeezes them, then raises them gently to her lips, presses a soft kiss to the tips.
A kiss. He asked for two kisses once, long ago, for his birthday, and she denied him. But Christine is not her, and his eyes sting with tears. She has kissed him so very many times, and he has counted each one – kissed his hands, his forehead, his cheeks, his lips (his throat, his chest, his scars, his belly). Counted them all and filed them away though they are out of his reach now, tucked away somewhere in the vaults of his memory. They number somewhere in the hundreds, possibly even the thousands, but she could give him a million sweet kisses and they would never be enough.
The first one. The first one is infinitely precious, a memory that makes his heart stutter a painful beat, and it must cross his face because she frowns at him, her lovely brow furrowed, and smooths a hand over his hair. "How do you feel?" the words are soft, as if they might hurt him, but they are music to his ears, a caress that he could live on forever. The words to describe how he feels, nestled here in their bed and her sitting beside him are all so very far away, and try as he may he cannot catch them, so he murmurs, simply through stiff lips, "Tired", and she nods, presses another one of those sweet kisses to his knuckles.
Oh, to kiss her, to hold her. But he is too tired to move, sleep tugging heavy at his eyes, and distantly he hears her say, "Rest." He would rest, truly he would, but if he were to rest that would be time wasted, time not spent with her, holding her, talking to her, listening to her, and it has never been easy for him to sleep but it is easier with her, when she wraps her arms so carefully around him and holds him close. His wife.
His wife.
She married him. Married! Bound herself to him unto death, and she is so young, so young and kind and beautiful, and she could have done so much better than to bind herself to a dying old man like him (she almost did), but she smiles at him and something in the softness of it is a balm to the pain in his heart, to those tendrils of fear that drift around him. It is easy to forget, sometimes, how long it is that she has been here with him, loving him, and holding him, and saving him. Sometimes it feels as if it has been centuries, and sometimes only moments, since she murmured "I do" and kissed him with Nadir their only witness before God. He kissed her cheek, and her forehead, and her skin was so soft beneath his lips, and it was her who decided, her, his dear bride, who decided that those kisses were not enough, and kissed his lips. He strokes his fingers gently over her wedding band, searching in his memory for how long it has been, and she smiles sadly at him.
"Four and a half months, Erik," she whispers, as if she could hear the question in his mind. "Four and a half months," and she bows her head, and presses her lips softly to the corner of his. "And there will be more, I promise you there will..." She says something more, something about the morphine seeping through his blood even now, but his mind cannot grasp it, too caught on the idea of more. Oh, the very thought of it is wonderful. More months, more years of her in his arms, and him in hers. And he can see her, in his mind's eye, elegant and proud, her hair grey and eyes creased, still smiling at him with her hand wrapped around his. The image is fleeting, gone in a moment, but it is gratifying and he stores it away, to look at again. Surely even God himself knows that he would spend a hundred years with her if he could, and another hundred more, just holding her, and kissing her ever so softly.
"I…I love you," he breathes, his heart aching to hold her, and her fingertips are light against his cheek, her lips soft upon his.
"I know," she murmurs into his mouth, "I know, Erik. I love you, so much." Is he dreaming it? Or are her cheeks wet with tears? He has not time to contemplate the question, because she is pressing another soft kiss to his lips, and another, and another, and the bed shifts and she wraps her arms around him, draws him close, kisses his forehead, his hair. Her heartbeat is beneath his ear, so much easier, steadier, than his own, and he hangs on it, feels the melody of it drifting through his mind, winding itself through each thought. He would live here, forever, if he could, in the pause between each beat, just lie in her arms, and listen, safe in the peace that he has longed for, each kiss one more blessing from her lips. To kiss her and hold her and be held by her forever. To simply never move again, never leave her embrace. It is so tempting, would be so easy, and he sighs, lets his eyes flutter closed, her soft murmurs bearing him away…
A/N: This is set after another one-shot of mine, 'Matrimony', and before my WIP, 'Etched with Tears'. Please read them too and leave a review if you liked this! And thank you everyone for supporting me this far! May this year bring many more new phics!