The whiskey glass sits on the nightstand where he left it before dinner. The amber liquid catching the lamplight barely covers the bottom. Two fingers' worth, maybe less. I drop both tablets in. They dissolve fast, the liquid clouding for a second before settling back to clear. Elena's prescription. Elena's room. Elena's escape, repurposed.
I'm back on the bed, legs tucked under me, by the time the bathroom door opens and Elio comes back with a warm cloth. I keep my face soft, and my breathing even.
Once he's done taking care of me, he tosses the cloth toward the bathroom door and settles against the headboard, one arm behind his head. His eyes find me with that possessive, half-lidded look that usually makes me want to climb back on top of him, and normally I would, normally I'd have a smart commentabout his stamina or his ego or both. But tonight I reach for the whiskey glass instead.
"Drink with me."
His eyebrow lifts. The faintest amusement at the corners of his mouth. I raise the glass to my own lips first, let the whiskey touch but not pass, then hold it out to him. His hand wraps around mine on the glass, guiding it to his mouth, and he drinks. A slow sip. His throat moves.
"To us," I say as i nod at him to continue.
Something soft flickers across his face. Not suspicion. More like the look of a man who is being cared for and doesn't know what to do with it. He takes the glass from my hand and drinks the rest in one swallow.
I take his face in my hands. My thumbs on his cheekbones. My forehead against his.
Seven minutes. Maybe ten. That's what the medical team told us when they first gave the sleeping pills to the survivors. Fast-acting.
His hand comes up to cover mine where it rests against his jaw. He turns his face into my palm and presses his lips there. The gentleness of it...
Don't.
I count his breaths instead.
One. Two. Three.
His eyes are getting heavier. The hand covering mine loosens by a fraction.
Four. Five.
"Violet." His voice is further away now, thicker, like he's speaking through water. His brow furrows slightly, confused, not alarmed. Just surprised by the heaviness, the sudden impossible weight of his own eyelids.
Six. Seven.
His body shifts against the headboard, sliding lower. His arm around my waist goes slack by degrees, the grip loosening the way it does when he falls asleep naturally, except faster. Much faster. His head tips back.
"I never..." He blinks. Slow. The kind of blink that takes a full second to complete. "I never believed in it. Love." His mouth barely forms the word. "Thought it was a lie people told themselves to justify doing stupid things."
Eight.
"But if it's real." His eyes find mine. Still brown. Still bottomless. But fading. "If it exists at all..."
Nine.
"...it must feel like this."
His arm falls away from my waist. His eyes close. His breathing changes. Deepens, evens, the controlled rhythm of a man who's finally stopped fighting unconsciousness.
One tear. Just one. It spills down my left cheek, warm, tracing a line to my jaw where it hangs for a second before dropping onto his chest. I don't wipe it. My hands are still on his face and I am not moving them yet because I need?—
I need one more second.
Then the second is over.
I lay him down. Carefully. Pillow under his head, the way he sleeps. Blanket pulled up, because the nights get cold here. My hand hovers over his face. His jaw, his mouth, the sharp line of his cheekbone.
I don't touch it.
My hand falls back.
