Work Text:
The small, dimming cabin is filled with the energetic sounds of quill scratching, as Robert Walton attempts to preserve the words of his friend on paper. The scribbling of the quill and the crashing of the ocean waves almost cover up the one sound that Walton is hypervigilant to hear: Victor’s slow, grating breaths.
Walton looks up from his letters, The setting sun illuminates Victor’s beautiful face in tones of red, orange, and yellow, casting the illusion of health where there is none.
The sunlight catches curls of Victor’s thick, messy, black hair, framing his worn face like a halo. Walton stands up from his desk, walking quickly across the room to Victor’s bed, caressing his hair, and listening to make sure that his heart still beats.
Earlier, when Victor pulled himself out of bed in a nervous passion, Walton’s heart dropped into his stomach as he saw his friend fall to the floor. He didn’t understand. Victor was gaining strength; enough to stand on the deck of the ship and make small talk with Walton about the wondrous icy wastes in front of them. Reliving his story seemed draining to Victor, but now it had all been told, and Victor’s health should have only gotten better from there. How could the same man who put his arm around Walton’s shoulders on the icy deck now struggle to even stand?
Walton should take another moment at his desk to make sure he has transcribed Victor’s words as faithfully as possible, but instead he runs a hand through his friend’s lustrous hair. Victor Frankenstein looks angelic in sleep, mouth slightly open, with a relaxed expression that Walton couldn’t imagine Victor making in wakefulness. Walton sits next to him, clasping Victor’s limp, cold hand in his own. Even through the blankets, he can feel Victor’s violent shivering.
Walton caresses Victor’s gaunt cheek with one hand, cursing his ice-cold temperature. He has already hunted down every spare blanket on the ship for his friend; Walton’s cheeks flush as he remembers making sure Victor was comfortable and then kissing him goodnight, Victor’s hands feeling warmer running through his hair. Tempted by the memory, painfully aware that his time with Victor may be limited, Walton leans down and gently kisses him again.
Victor’s eyelids flutter open; his tired yet bright eyes staring affectionately at Walton.
“My dear Robert,” Victor says quietly. “I was dreaming of you; a pleasant dream, and something tells me that it was my last.”
“Don’t talk that way, Victor,” Walton stammers, caught off guard, holding one of Victor’s cold hands in both of his own. “There has to be a chance you can pull through.”
“I appreciate your optomism, Robert,” Victor smiles weakly. “But my strength is almost spent. Despair and hardship have worn me out.”
“No,” Robert whispers; to himself or Victor, he’s not sure. “There has to be something I can do. Do you need more blankets? A hot meal? Should I fetch the doctor?”
Victor reaches up to caress Walton’s face. “Your lips would make me warmer than any of those.”
Walton leans in to press his lips against Victor’s, and he can’t help but notice how cold Victor’s lips are. Walton will not entertain the notion that Victor is dying; but even so, Victor’s entire body is ice cold.
Walton pulls back and stands up. He can’t just sit and kiss Victor in a way that feels suspiciously like a goodbye.
“I have to get the doctor,” he mumbles. “I have to bring you medicine, more blankets, some soup, something. Anything. This can’t be it. There has to be something I can do.”
Victor grabs Walton’s hand, pulling him back.
“Please, stay.”
Walton stands still, rambling. “I can’t do this, Victor. I can’t say goodbye to you. I just - there has to be something-“
Victor’s fingers caress Walton’s hand. “Robert, I don’t want to do this either. But my family - I can see them reaching out to me.”
Walton looks back, sits back down. He sees that Victor’s lashes are wet with tears. Walton chokes back his own tears - he has to be strong for Victor, to send him off peacefully. His heart has been breaking in slow motion, but he can wait to show it until Victor is- until later.
Victor’s trembling hand reaches up to Walton’s cheek. “Robert, can you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
Victor pulls back the layers of blankets, making space beside him. “Please, lay next to me. Keep me warm until I go.”
“Of course,” Robert whispers, wrapping his arms around Victor, laying his head on Victor’s chest.
Robert closes his eyes and listens for Victor’s heartbeat, each moment between beats stretching as long as an eternity. He listens as Victor’s labored breaths become quieter, more shallow, and further and further apart.
“I would have come back to England with you,” Victor whispers, so faintly that Robert is half sure he imagined it. “I would’ve…” Victor trails off, but Robert fills in the blanks in his mind. He would have gotten to know him better. He would have made a home with him. He would have built a new life, a fresh start, if only he had gotten more time.
Robert listens for Victor’s quiet, precious heartbeats, one after another. He feels Victor’s hand run through his hair, weakly. The pauses in between breaths grow longer and longer, until one final hollow, rattling breath is exhaled.
Robert counts the seconds after this breath, waiting for Victor to take another breath. He has to. Robert counts to sixty seconds, one hundred and twenty, and after two hundred seconds and no heartbeats he sits up. Victor’s beautiful dark eyes are closed, a small, gentle smile on his lips.
Hours later, far into the night, a member of Robert’s crew finds him sitting on the bed, cradling Victor in his arms, an empty look in his eyes. They find him mumbling to Victor over and over again, begging him to wake up.