Note: This is super short and kinda weird, but I hope you guys like it. Rated T for bloodiness again, but it's nothing too serious. As always, I own nothing but my own thoughts.
She has always found him beautiful.
Eyes the colour of passion, hair pure like the clouds that so rarely come across the desert skies. His teeth sharp as his wit, and his tongue designed for sin, shoulders broad enough to carry his burdens and hers, and any others he feels he deserves.
He is beautiful in the way he lives, always weighing options carefully, always looking for what's best for those he loves, always always always deliberate. Never a step taken that he hasn't chosen to take, never a decision made that he does not take responsibility for. He always takes the blame.
Whether or not it is his to possess is irrelevant.
What scares her most now though, is how he is beautiful in the way he is dying, glistening blood shimmering all different colours in the filtered light of the church. The stained glass paints him in all the shades of sin and forgiveness and love and sacrifice.
Blood seeps from his lips as he begs for her to leave him, and she thinks it's absurd because how could she? She wants to bear witness to all the ways he can be beautiful. If he is to die, she wants to know his final words, hear his last exhalation, feel his soul leave his body with a musical, mournful, proud kind of grace that she's only ever seen within him, nowhere else.
She knows that if he is to die here tonight, it will torture her endlessly.
But not seeing it happen would absolutely destroy her.
Later on, as she sits beside his hospital bed, she gets to see how he is beautiful in the way that he survives, the slow rise and fall of his stitched up chest a constant in their ever changing lives. It is her favourite kind of beauty of his, she thinks. She hopes to see it for a long, long time.