Mere weeks later

He does not feel her here, he cannot feel her here. The drugs in his veins ensure that, but how she wishes they didn't. They are critical, the doctor said, essential to keep him comfortable (to keep him alive, at least for now.) He does not stir as she takes his hand, curls her fingers gently around it. His fingers are cold, colder than she is used to, and she presses them to her lips, breathes against them to warm them. He does not like cold fingers, never has. They interfere with his music, violin and piano both, make his knuckles cold, and if all she can do now to help him is kiss them, then she will.

She presses a soft kiss to the tip of his thumb, his index finger, middle finger, ring finger. More than eight years ago, she stood before an altar and slipped a ring onto that finger, and declared herself his wife. The ring shines up at her, a touch dulled by the years, but still beautiful, and a lump tightens in her throat. Over eight years, nearly nine if she, if she is being honest, and her heart throbs painfully to think that this might be it.

This might be all there is.

No. No. It can't be. She won't let it. She loves him too much, needs him too much, her and little Fabian both. They need him so much. It can't…it can't end like this. It can't.

(It's his heart, the doctor said. His heart. That great, sweet heart that has loved her since the day they met. He did not feel quite well this morning, and he had a funny look on his face, kept rubbing his left arm and when she questioned it on him he smiled and said that he was a little overenthusiastic conducting last night, probably he pulled something and it's nothing to worry about. But then a little while later he went kind of grey, and sort of gasped her name, and she could only stare, frozen, as his eyes rolled and he crumpled to the floor.)

Her eyes sting with tears and she shuts them tight, unable to look at his cold, pale hand, his pallid face. He is her husband, her husband. He is supposed to be here for them always, by her side every moment, and he knows that, knows how much she loves him, and the words catch with her breath but she can't speak them, not even now watching him here. She should be able to tell him, to give him something to hold onto other than her warm hand cradling his limp one, but she can't. If she speaks a word she'll crack. Those tears will escape, roll in streams down her cheeks, and she can't cry over him, not yet. Not when he is living. He would not want that, has never wanted her to cry for him at all, not for his past, not those rare times he's been ill, never.

And he is living, still. He is. Each ragged breath that reaches her ears reminds her of that fact, and she hangs on them as if her own life were in the balance. If he could just open his eyes, just one moment…

They might be open already, watching her in his soft, careful way, and she does not know with her own eyes closed. Damn the tears! She needs to see him, needs to, that face she's kissed and touched so many times. She swallows, and takes a breath to brace herself, and opens her eyes.

And finds him still unconsc—sleeping. He is still sleeping. But that's good, isn't it? He needs his rest, the doctor said so. To regain his strength. No matter that the morphine is helping him. No matter how much she wants him to wake. It is better this way, better. And she nods as if she might be able to believe the words, as if she was whispering him to Fabian so he does not get upset over his Papa being ill.

But Fabian is not in here, cannot see Erik like this, now, and Farhad is with him, talking to him, telling him stories, as if his own mind were not in this room too. Perhaps it would be fairer if Farhad were in here as well, and Mamma. And Fabian, too. He will surely want to see his Papa, and if he gets upset—

If he gets upset she will hold him, and kiss his little forehead, and swear to him that there is no need to cry, that Papa is only resting to get well.

Only resting. Get well. She has heard those words before, too many times. And they have pounded a drumbeat through her brain, through her nightmares. They were lies then, lies with the Professor and lies with her own Papa, because neither of them ever did get well, only faded away. But they cannot be lies now. Cannot be. She will. not. let. them. be.

She shakes her head to clear the thoughts away, and presses her lips again to Erik's knuckles. And she thinks, this time, he feels her, because his brow furrows, only slightly, and his fingers twitch. She curls her own fingers around them, and squeezes them, willing him to stir, willing his eyes to flutter. And they do, they open a crack, only for a moment, before slipping closed again, and relief blooms deep in her chest.