‎almost. ‎ ‎something so significant about that made his chest churn. made his insides squirm. we were almost perfect, almost beautiful. ‎ ‎death is nothing at all. it does not count. he have only slipped away into the next room. nothing has happened. whatever we were, to each other, that we are still. untouched, unchanged, untamed— call his name. play, smile, think of him, pray for him. pray his name—let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. but why—why that look in your face, my love? ‎ ‎why are you looking at him like that? oh, them? those useless bodies sprawled on the floor. those good for nothing mortals that had attempted to wed you off like a lamb for its wool. he did this for you—for us— but as you turned your back on him for the first time, he felt the cross around his neck catch fire. he felt the weight of it around him. that anguish, that misery. ‎ ‎his heart breaks—it heals, but still felt like breaking. devastation, resignation, it's on his face. not an ounce of shame, not even guilt is there for what he'd done. but he's hurting. seeing your face drawn, drained of hope. but still beautiful. still you— that hurts him. ‎ ‎"it's for you." he whispers and breathes, scarlet painting his lips. "for you." ‎ ‎he staggers forward, body trembling, and lean in behind you. arms heavy, restraint, refusing to touch, to take. so, he lower his face into your hair like a prayer, pressing a trembling kiss to your crown. he lingers there—savoring, breaking. worshiping. ‎ ‎your pulse beats beneath his lips—fast, fragile, alive—he chases it with a breath that ghosts down your neck, burning. ‎ ‎then his body slackens. his head drops, face buried in the crook of your shoulder. one last breath— deep, aching— drawn from your skin. his brow furrows as if to memorize your scent, as if to make you the last thing he’ll ever hold inside. ‎ ‎oh so slowly, shaking his head, intruding, persuading, begging. "you. you.. yours."