He doesn't sleep very much at all that night, his heart too full, the tightness in his chest. This pressure that makes it so hard to breathe, and he slips in and out of dreams, dreams of Jack in his arms and Rachel passing him tea and Erik and Christine laughing together and Sorelli studying a script, asking him to help her rehearse, and Philippe, Philippe holding his hand like when he was a boy and they went for walks in the fields. So many dreams, fractures, and pieces, and he wakes from them cold and shivering, coughing around the pain in his chest, the sweat beading cold on his skin.

By morning he can't hold out any longer, his heart racing with little shooting pains, his lungs burning with each breath. Sorelli would be disgusted if she thought he wasn't minding himself, disgusted if she thought he wasn't worried, and he is worried, just a little, worried that now what Christine told him might be wrong and he'll go faster than he thought and he doesn't want to, he can't, he wants every moment, but God the pain—

He hears Anea at the door, and he straightens up, just enough, so that he can meet her gaze when she comes in, and she pales at the sight of him.

Before she can say anything, he gasps, and whispers, "get an ambulance," and then the darkness swims in and takes him away.

He comes back to her face, swimming before him, pale and drawn. Comes back to her shoulder solid and real beneath his head, her arms around him. Comes back to the pain still heavy in his chest, her fingers at his throat, the colours of the room all blurring and swirling.

He gasps and closes his eyes, feels Anea's hand cupping his cheek.

"It's on its way," she whispers, "is there anything I can get you?"

He shakes his head, tries to, the room still spinning, that old vertigo back again as vicious as it ever was and the bile rises burning in his throat.

He swallows it down and gasps again. "No. Just—just don't tell Christine, not yet. Don't want her—don't want her to worry—"

"Raoul—"

He forces his eyes open, the room still spinning. "Please, Anea. Please. Just—just a few hours. Not going to—not going to go yet."

That heaviness in his chest. If he could just breathe, just breathe properly—

Anea nodding, her hand sliding, cupping the back of his head. "All right, all right."

The colour bleeds from the world again.

In and out. A rush of unfamiliar faces, words he can't make out. Anea there, always.

A pinch in his arm and he feels it cold in his blood, whatever they've given him. For a moment it's 1952 again and Noël's jaw is set firm, then he's back and Anea's hand is curled right around his own, everything jolting, shaking.

The pain eases and he draws a breath, easier than before, and when sleep comes he gives into it.

Voices, muffled. Fingers, hands. His breath hitches, and knuckles dig into his chest, make him gasp. The quiet, soft again.

When he opens his eyes, Christine is there.

Everything is dulled, far away, the air he breathes cold in his nose and he realizes they've put something over his face.

He closes his eyes again, and her fingers are gentle, brushing over his forehead.

"Christine." All he can do to whisper her name.

"Don't say anything, Raoul." He can hear the tears in her voice. "Just—just save your strength."

This poor dear girl.

His eyes flicker open again, and he manages a smile for her. A tear slips silver down her cheek, and he tries to raise his hand, to smooth it away, but there are wires and things and he's too tired. She threads her fingers between his, and smiles.

There's no pain.

The fact of that is a relief.

Erik knows. He can see it in the boy's face, the red rim of his eyes. Erik knows, and Raoul squeezes his hand, because it's all he can do, and he wants him to know that it's all right, that it's best this way.

Erik nods, and squeezes his hand back.

Anea will look after them both, will be there for them after he—after him. She's been too good to him, all along. He would have been lost without her.

He has a memory of writing that in a letter for her. He wishes he could find words to say it out loud, but she kisses his hair and he thinks she understands.

(She's already agreed, a promise made, to take a lock of his hair and bury it at Philippe's grave. As close as he will be able to get.)

The night is still, quiet. Erik is dozing in the chair, and Anea has slipped outside, but Christine is awake, watching him. He can see the blue of her eyes through the low light.

"I'm glad," he whispers, glad you're here, glad you've always been here, glad to have had you in my life…"Glad," he whispers, and he hasn't the breath to say the rest.

She smiles, a faint smile, and kisses his fingers.

"I know," she whispers. "I'm glad too."

Mostly he sleeps, but when he wakes, they're always there.

He's not sure he dreams. If he does, he doesn't remember them when he wakes. Doesn't matter now. There'll be time enough for all that later.

Christine always there, beside him.

He'd tell her to get some rest if he could, but she wouldn't listen.

He thinks, just once, to ask the date.

Christine kisses his forehead. "20 March," she whispers, "2017."

Something about it feels like it should be important, but he can't remember what, now.

"Just sleep," she whispers. "Sleep."

That night she comes to him.

Comes to him from the future, many many years in the future. So far the thought of it is beyond what he can comprehend.

His Christine, the Christine of this time, is asleep, her head on his shoulder. Anea and Erik nowhere in sight, and the older Christine, the oldest Christine, sits beside her younger self, and smiles at him.

There are tears in her eyes, and her fingers are trembling as she brushes the ones from his cheek.

"It won't be long now," she whispers, "for either of us."

That she, too, is coming to her end in her own time makes his throat tight.

"You've been—happy?" All he can do to get breath for words.

She nods. "Very."

His eyes slip closed. "Good. And—Rachel?"

"Just as wonderful as you knew she'd be."

That she knows, in that far away time, what he was thinking as he met her daughter—

Another tear slips down his cheek. She brushes it away.

"And—and Erik?"

"Outside getting some air. It's strange seeing him so young again. He's," her breath catches, "he's been gone a couple of years now."

His heart aches, and he draws a shaky breath. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are. I know." She kisses his forehead, kisses his cheek. "Sleep well, my friend." Her voice hoarse. "Sleep well."

He closes his eyes, and feels her slip away.

He sleeps.

Christine, there when he wakes. Christine, tears in her eyes. Christine, trying to smile for him. Christine, kissing his fingers.

The room muffled, light low with the night, and he would say something to her, if he could, would tell her—tell her that she's been—tell her—

He makes a noise, he must, because she squeezes his hand tighter. "You don't have to say anything," she whispers, "I know."

"I'd have been lost without you," her voice low in his ear, but his eyes are too heavy to open. "I wish I could say—wish I could tell you all—"

His fingers tighten around hers, and she quietens, and he sleeps.

In his dreams he can feel them. Can feel Christine's breath against his neck, her head heavy on his shoulder, can feel her hand curled around his. Can feel Erik beside her, quiet, but there. Can feel Anea at his other side, willing him just to rest, and he thinks she might be right.

Can feel them so close, each of them.

How he loves them.

He would tell them if he could, but his eyes are too heavy to open.

His fingers twitch, and Christine's tighten around them.

"You can stop fighting, stop fighting. We'll be all right, I promise. You can rest now, rest…" Her voice a whisper, her lips, soft against his cheek. A whisper, like silk.

A whisper—

Philippe's face is pressed close to his. His brother at his side and how he's missed him, missed him so much, for so long. Sorelli squeezes his hand and smiles at him, kisses his knuckles. There are tears in Darius' eyes, slipping down his cheeks. And Jack—

Jack strokes back his hair, and brushes his lips to his, and he sighs, and feels the darkness close at hand.

Jack's breath warm in his mouth. Jack's fingers, resting against his cheek.

Jack.

A tear slips from Philippe's eye, his voice muffled, soft.

"Raoul."

He leans into his brother, and feels his arms come around him, and sighs.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who's stayed with this fic through this whole Journey! There'll be a very special one-shot sometime in the next week, but it means so much to know people have read and enjoyed this fic!