Written based on an anon kiss scene prompt from tumblr '...as an apology'.

Erik is dead.

That is what the paper said, in that bold black print that made the tea in Christine's mouth turn to sand in her throat. That is what had her staring, blank and stuck and unable to so much as twitch a muscle. That is what had the ring on her finger, that plain gold band, burning a brand into her skin before she rose so quickly that she forgot to put the teacup back on the table before letting go of it. She had ignored the shards of what had once been fine crockery, dashing out the doors with only a knotted weight in her chest and that gold ring to burden her.

Erik is dead.

The words keep ringing in her head in a voice that isn't her own, over and over and over again, echoing and overlapping until they are completely unrecognizable. She knows she saw them, she knows that they were there in front of her, unmistakable on the page, the letters burnt into her retinas. She didn't imagine them, they were there.

Yet here she stands, that gold ring pressed so tightly into her palm that it forces an indent into her skin as she stares into the eyes that match it, as she stands mere feet away from a barely-breathing echo. He seems to skirt the line he so often did, that tiny sliver between man and shadow that only he could toe. Now, the shadows appear to call his bluff, no longer light and receptive to his command but weighing on him like a rain-soaked coat.

She hears no sound in the dim gas-lit drawing room save for those weak breaths and the ticking of a clock that he has inexplicably kept wound. Then, the sound of his name on her tongue, though she doesn't remember willing herself to speak it. He seems to grow heavier for the sound of it, head sagging forward, gaunt and unmasked face downturned as though he is unwilling, unable to look at her.

"I… had expected, by now… that I would be…"

His voice is a distorted facsimile of what it once was, a hoarse, barely audible scrape. A Stradivarius with an unrosined bow. Her hand tightens and her fingernails join the ring in pushing into the flesh of her palm. When she speaks again, her own voice shakes.

"You… You weren't planning on…?" She doesn't realize how much the answer matters until he shakes his head no and a wash of relief floods over her in a sigh.

The relief is short-lived when, with a sudden grunt and a gripping over his heart, he falls hard to one knee, one hand bracing him against the rug. She is in front of him in an instant, grabbing his shoulder as he takes in a laboured breath. She drops the ring, reaching to him, but he shakes his head, removing the hand from his chest to stop her.

"Christine…" Rough, hoarse, pained. He lifts his eyes to her, that cat's-eye glow a low sheen in the darkness. "Why did you come?" The question lances her to the core and she shakes her head, finishing her reach forward to pull the still-floating hand into both of hers. He makes no protest, muscles going slack as he shifts with effort to be on both knees. She caresses a thumb over his marble-carved knuckles.

"I promised you." She only removes one of her hands from him, just to pluck up the ring from the floor. She lifts it to show him, as though she needs to remind him of that day—so long ago, it feels like. A lifetime in three weeks. He looks at the offending band, back up to her eyes, then to the ring again before he closes his eyes once more. She can hear the suppressed rumble in his chest, can feel him tensing in the muscles of his hand as his fingers tighten around hers unbidden and hers tighten back. The moment fades, but her hand stays.

"Sweet, honest, pitying woman," he murmurs. "Why would you make a promise to a fading devil?" She doesn't respond, instead squeezing his hand again, trying her best to warm it—cold, even colder than she remembers. She can feel his heartbeat with her fingertips at his wrist, frail and quick, like hummingbird beats.

All at once it is far too quick, erratic and rhythmless, and his hand closes like a talon over hers, almost painful as his other comes up to claw at his chest. He gasps, great wheezing breaths as he wavers in place, and before she can so much as yell, he falls to his side. She scrambles closer, the ring forgotten once more, a buzzing in her ears blocking out the sound of the clock as she pulls her hand out of his to lift his head into her lap, to press fingers to the side of his neck.

His heartbeat begins to steady again, his breaths slowing, but it does little to lessen the knots tying tighter in her gut. With light, quivering fingers, she smooths the sparse hair of his temple back. It sticks to the film of sweat that lays on his skin, but she doesn't pull away, the motion made to comfort herself as much as to comfort him.

She hears, above the ringing in her ears, a rough whisper, but she can't make out the words, even as he turns in her lap to face her. She can see the millimeter's line of gold looking up at her, and her mouth goes dry to see tears streaking down into her skirt, to see the barest tremble to his lips as he speaks.

"You should leave me," he says, even as he pulls his hand from his chest to twist fingers into her dress. "Don't watch me die, Christine." The crack in her heart is near audible, tears stinging her eyes and burning her cheeks. She shakes her head, pressing her hand firm to the side of his head.

"I won't leave you," she whispers, trying harder to will his skin to warm beneath hers. It feels like paper, thin and damp and easy to tear under her thumb, but she sweeps it along his cheekbone all the same. "Not like this." He lets out a sound not unlike a sob, but strained, and his hand shakes for the force with which he clutches the fabric of her dress. He tugs on it as though trying to pull her closer, so she lifts his head to cradle him in her arms, up to her chest.

"Oh, Christine…" Her name squeezes from him as though his throat is closing, as though the shadows that had been on his shoulders are now choking him. "Forgive me…" The plea is spoken like a prayer of supplication, his hold on her dress desperate, as though she is the rosary to which he must cling. She hushes him softly, leaning down closer to him, but he doesn't obey, the words coming again and again in a feverish muttering.

When she whispers his name, he stops, hand leaving her dress to anchor itself on her upper arm. He tries to shift in her arms but she holds him still, his body feeble and pliant. Still he lifts his head, almost face to face with her.

In those amber eyes, she sees the cumulation of every sin that festers in his skull. He is begging her, clawing for absolution, not in the eyes of God but in hers. That frigid hand is at the back of her neck now, chilling her blood, and he bows his head.

"Please…" A barely-there breath that makes her own come out slow. "Forgive me…"

She can do nothing but nod, but hold him closer, but cup his cheek and bid him to look back at her. Another whisper of his name, another strained breath and their eyes lock. She had once been so afraid to look into those eyes, unable to meet them, but she does now, doesn't shrink away. Her voice finally comes back to her.

"I already have…"

She pulls him closer until his weight rests against her chest and he sinks into her. His hand doesn't leave the back of her neck, but she welcomes it, welcomes the feeling of his thumb tracing through the tiny curls at her hairline. He whispers her name once more and she hums to tell him that she hears him, unable to speak any further.

"I love you…"

She can't stop the sob at this, cracked and shaking her shoulders. He squeezes the back of her neck and their eyes lock again, bleary for the tears that refuse to stop. His head tips upward toward hers and hers down toward him, and she leans in closer, even as her tears drip down to his cheeks.

She doesn't know if it is he who pulls her down or she who pulls him up, but the distance closes between them until their lips meet. A soft pressure, barely there but powerful as it wraps tight around her chest and squeezes until she thinks she can't breathe. It lingers, a beat longer than forgiveness, before his strength gives out and he goes limp in her arms.

They cry. They cry quietly, the ticking clock drowning out their stifled sobs as she holds him to her chest, as she balls fists into his shirt with each of his spasms and each second that he grows more silent, as she rocks him back and forth with his head held over her heart.

She doesn't know how long she sits, legs going numb beneath her, but by the time she slips the ring to his too-cold finger, the clock has stopped its ticking.