Pain and pain. The hot slip of teardrops as they trickled from the corner of his eyes. Wet, warm blood seeped between his fingers as he pressed on his own abdomen. My blood. My life. Fred in front of him, cradling him. Imposter. Lie. Illyria and he smiled at her. Grateful. Dumbstruck at her beauty, as he always had been when she was alive.
But where was the truth in this last moment?
The truth was with eyes browner than this. A back four times broader. A chest and arms that were made of what felt like iron and bone. Muscles covered with skin and fine, invisible hairs that Wesley could feel rise to meet the palm of his hand just before he ... touched.
Lips that were soft. That molded to his. Long fingers that carefully lifted away his glasses, when he wore them, set them aside. The amused smile at the knowledge the world had just become a blur. That now Wesley was operating on touch and smell and taste alone.
Forgiveness came in many ways. For both of them. It thrived in anger, it paled with passion and it died when it was surrounded by love.