Ten years later, to the very night, they are still sitting on the divan, Erik sprawled along its length, his head nestled in Rahim's lap, their rings glinting in the soft glow from the fire. Ten years. Has it truly been ten years? Rahim closes his eyes and it feels like only moments since Erik held his left hand, and slipped that ring onto his finger, vowing to love him forever.
Forever. They have almost met forever so many times, with pneumonia and headaches and nightmares and more, and even now Rahim's mind can flick back seven years in an instant, to the night he sat by Erik's bedside and thought that he might truly die this time, watching every half-flicker of pain across that pallid face, hanging on each strangled breath, a world of worry in the Vicomte's eyes when he dared look away from Erik. Or his mind can flick back all of eight years, and he can open his eyes and see Erik's face hovering over him, so pale and worried, his eyes shining with unshed tears, promising that he would do better, would be better, would do anything—
Erik smiles up at him now, breaking the spell of those awful memories, and his eyes are soft, his fingers gently woven with Rahim's own. Rahim bows his head, and lightly presses one kiss to his cool forehead. Ten years, but there have been plenty of wonderful moments too, in that decade that feels like only minutes.
It drifts before him again, the night he and Erik danced together on top of the Garnier, Lords over Paris in their own right, the night they held each other close, the snow falling down, and Rahim truly thought that he could get lost in Erik's eyes, the day Erik, a blanket draped around his shoulders for warmth, held little François in his arms for the first time, looking half-afraid and in love all at once. So many moments, so many wonderful sweet moments together.
Ten years since Erik gave him the ring, but fifteen years of being with him. Fifteen years, and he often wonders how they got here, but there are memories for it all, glimpses of treasured moments and the painful ones too, all of them.
It is an easy explanation, but a difficult one, sometimes, to even believe.
Christine and Raoul visited earlier today, and the children. Little Filippa has always been very taken with Erik, and sat in his lap begging for all of the stories he could tell her until she dozed off. And François brought his sketching paper, and drew quietly a long time, his golden curls shining in the firelight. Later, Darius took them both into the kitchen, and gave them sweets, and Christine sat in the armchair that has long-since become hers, Raoul holding her hand, and told them their happy news. A third baby on the way, only a couple of months along, and we would like to name it after you, both of you, when the time comes.
Rahim has had his suspicions, for the last little while, though he has kept his own counsel on the subject, and when Erik heard the news his face lit up in a way that Rahim did not think possible, and his heart throbbed painfully with the love he keeps inside of him for this man, this great, wonderful, beautiful man.
"Sometimes I think," Erik sighs, drawing Rahim's thoughts back to the present, back to that same wonderful man lying with his head in his lap, his eyes closed and that soft smile still playing around his lips, "sometimes I wonder, what might have happened, of we had never found each other, that night at the gala. I might have become a ghost down there, alone, and you, you would be here, with Darius, and always wonder. We both would always wonder, what happened to the other…" He trails off, and squeezes Rahim's hand, and it is on the tip of Rahim's tongue to say we must not think such awful things, when Erik murmurs, his voice hoarse, "I think I might have died, long ago, if not…if not for having found you."
And Rahim cannot say anything, not anything meaningful, his throat too tight at Erik's words, so he brings Erik's hand to his lips, and kisses it softly, and breathes, "You would have lived. You would always live." The thought of Erik, dying down there alone, in the lair he carved out for himself—No, no. He should not imagine such things. They are too awful, too painful. "And we would have found each other, sometime, somehow. Even had it all been different we would have found each other, in any life."
"You have always been too good to me, Rahim." And in the faint slur of Erik's voice, Rahim can hear the tiredness, the exhaustion that weighs so heavy on him sometimes, and his heart twists.
"No, Erik. You have always been more than I could ever deserve. You would have lived, and I would have lived, and it would have been awful, separated from each other. And this…what we have is the best thing that could have ever happened to me."
The smile in Erik's voice is faint when he murmurs, "I feel the same way."
They stay like that, quietly, for another little while, each lost in their own thoughts and memories, before they retire to bed, and there, cradled in each other's arms, Erik free of the laudanum that has helped him sleep these last many years and their pocket watches ticking softly together on the bedside locker, there cradled close both of them are able to rest.
They have come a long way from that Russian fair, from those early years in Persia, but here, now, they will have each other, for the rest of the lifetime that stretches out before them, peaceful, and quiet, and together in love.
A/N: So it is over. But rest assured, there will be more one-shots and short fics set in this 'verse. I love it too much to let it go!