Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.
"We don't have to do it right this minute." she told him, hoping to alleviate some of his nerves. His hand shook in hers, clutching to her pale white fingers for dear life. But he was so tired, so sick. She hated to see him so miserable.
They were both going to die. It was only a matter of time—when and where the final moment would find them. It could be at school, in the hospital, at home. Tate and Violet had known each other casually for years, but had never had a reason to really know one another until now. It was illness that had initially brought them together and this union was no different. It was cancer, too extensive to be healed. Neither of them would have the chance to live much longer, but they hated the idea of wasting away.
Tate wanted to be brave. He didn't want to hesitate. He wanted to make Violet feel safe, make her feel comfortable to be with him in those final moments. This was all that they would ever have, but it was difficult. He had assumed that dying would be easy. He had been so close so many times. But, now that the time had actually come, he found himself terrified. He didn't know what he would find on the other side, if he would be judged, forgiven or condemned. He wasn't sure that he had been a good person, wasn't sure that he had been a bad one either. And he hated the notion of leaving the world without being sure.
Violet found it hard to think. Her mind had been slowly slipping away as the disease progressed, but she could still make her own decisions. She didn't want to get too sick. She didn't want to forget things, people. She wanted to die with her memories, with Tate, with the consolation that she had lived her life fully. She wanted to die alive. And, as she watched Tate shiver beside her, she knew that this was right. Human emotion was something she craved, something she needed. To wither away in its absence would be insufferable.
A tear fell from her eye as she looked at him, so broken, but so strong. He had endured so much pain—just like her. "Tate, do you not want to do this?" She didn't want to force him, didn't want to take away his life when he wasn't ready to give it up yet.
He shook his head in denial. "I want to, Vi. I'm just saying goodbye. I need to say goodbye."
It was easy to understand what he meant. They were young…very young. The world seemed so new and wonderful, and yet it had too quickly become a dark place. They had run from it for as long as they could, pretended to be a part of the vitality. But they had not been able to outrun time, to outrun nature or destiny. Eventually, reality had found them, in a place where they didn't think reality ever could be found.
He squeezed her hand lovingly, kissed each of her knuckles, held her slender finger against his cheek for a moment, wanting desperately to remember her like this—human, vulnerable and, most importantly, in love with him. Nothing seemed to matter besides that, and he felt more at peace as he realized this truth. She was everything. Without her, there would be no point to living, or even dying.
The pistols rested in their other hands. With a knowing look, they made their choice. This would be the end of the road, the end of their story—twisted and shrouded in darkness and tribulation. Yet, they wouldn't have traded it for the world. They know the truth. This is all they will ever need, for eternity. As their lips meet, they bring the barrels of the guns to rest on each other's temples. The metal almost pulses over that point on Violet's scull: the source of all her troubles. She thinks it's beautiful, in a way, and so does he, much better than the fate that they would face otherwise.
As their lips move against one another, their hands intertwine, they pull the trigger, and it's all over. It was what they set out to do from the very beginning, but it's more. This was what they had wanted, even before they had known it: to die loved and unafraid, in the arms of the person that they could never be without. In the end, they are Romeo and Juliet—star-crossed lovers, their wounds symbols of their love and dedication, their unfailing faith that this was what was best for them. They were not dead, only resting, forever, hearts and souls interlaced in a knot that could never be undone.