#bammon

Nearly an hour later at the mercy of even more ridiculous activities that the Arcobaleno chose to forget for the sake of his sanity (though he was thankfully free of the restricting blanket) Mammon finally lost his patience completely. He rotated himself in Bel's lap so he was facing the blond and glared. “Bel—it’s just a little cold! Stop! Why are you making such a big deal out of it?!”   The blond’s grin paused for a moment in surprise before it turned into more of a thin, forced line. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “That army baby called earlier to say there was a chance you’d suffer from a small cold as an aftereffect from being brought back to life. He didn’t want you to worry, so he wanted to let you know . . . it’s not like last time.”   Mammon’s eyes widened under his hood with understanding and there was a slight twinge of guilt in his chest. Of course—this was how it started with the non-Trinisette rays. At first, no one had been alarmed because while it was uncommon for Mammon to get sick, it’s not like it was a rare occurrence. Only when the condition worsened and all the other Arcobaleno reported similar symptoms did it become an issue. And of course by then it was too late, even though there was really nothing they could do anyway.    Various memories flashed by; of trudging through the mansion like nothing was wrong; the feeling of anger and hopelessness—both at himself, Byakuran, and the damned curse; his fellow assassins trying to act like they didn’t notice; a silent Prince keeping watch over him at night when he thought Mammon was asleep, as if that was enough to fight back the illness, as if that could prevent the inevitable—   Mammon's face softened. “I . . . suppose I won’t charge you. For this time, anyway.”   Bel nodded stiffly but said nothing. There was an uncomfortable silence as they both just sat there, with Mammon watching the blond intently while the other looked everywhere but at the fellow assassin in his lap. The normally exuberant prince was completely rigid, hands clenched at his side, jaw set, and it seemed like he had to expel a considerable amount of effort to keep his breathing steady.   Mammon slowly and carefully stood up. It didn’t do much for his height, but it was more about the principle of the matter and the importance he was trying to convey.  ". . . I'm not going anywhere this time, Bel," he said, voice barely above a whisper. He gave the lightest of touches to Bel's arm.   The prince broke free of his sudden paralysis and let out a choked laugh. "You'd better not. No lying to the Prince, it's . . . you can't. Not allowed."   There was another brief moment of silence, then Mammon reached up and gently brushed back Bel's bangs. At the same time, he lifted his own gaze and let the hood slide off his head. Steel gray met purple. The two of them had reached a point where there was no need to hide their eyes from each other. They respected and understood each other’s need to hide their eyes from the rest of the world.   "I promise it won't happen again. I won't let it," Mammon said, staring purposefully into Bel's eyes. "I bet it on all the money I own."   Slowly, all the worry and fear in the prince's gray eyes were replaced by simple relief. His expression then settled into a warm smile that most would believe the man incapable of making, though Mammon knew better. The amount of people who had seen that smile could be counted on one hand, and the illusionist couldn't help but feel a small amount of pride at being one of those people. Mammon returned the equally rare smile and Bel gently pulled the Arcobaleno into an embrace.   Contrary to earlier in the day, Mammon returned the gesture. His tiny hands gripped the fabric of Bel’s shirt and he buried his face into it, allowing himself the rare opportunity to seek comfort in physical contact. In response, Bel nearly curled around the Arcobaleno by pulling up his knees and rested his head on top of Mammon’s. The illusionist rather felt like a favorite toy that a child sought out after a nightmare.   "I won’t let that happen again,” Bel whispered, so softly Mammon wasn’t sure if it was spoken or he was unconsciously reading the blond’s thoughts. The how wasn’t important though—the only thing that mattered to Mammon was the powerful and raw emotion in Bel’s voice. It was painful and broken. The illusionist couldn't help but feel guilty, although he knew it was through no fault of his own.   During his illness, there were times where it seemed that it was harder on Bel than it was for him. Considering the concern came from a sociopath who delighted in the misery and pain of others, Mammon couldn't help but feel rather touched. He also couldn't deny that he felt the same about Bel, whatever this was. Assassins weren't supposed to have friends or people that were precious to them. It was dangerous, and the reason why Mammon made sure to distance himself from others. Money was all that mattered. But somehow . . . this blond, self-proclaimed prince had barged into his life and became an important person to him. Mammon would never admit it of course, but he would never regret it.   "I'll never leave you, Bel. I promise."   Not too long after, Mammon found himself curled up on Bel's lush bed, still wrapped in the others sinewy arms. No words had passed between them since. They had merely enjoyed the simplicity of each other's presence; a luxury that had been denied them for far too long for both of their tastes.   His royal highness had succumbed to sleep not too long ago and the Arcobaleno fought back a sigh, seeing as how he was the one who was sick. But Bel had just come back from a mission (Mammon was ever so grateful Bel had the decency to shower first and get a change of blood-free clothes) so Mammon couldn’t blame him all that much. But no matter. He yawned and sunk back into the blond's arms.   “Goodnight, Bel." Mammon snuggled a little closer to get comfortable and was soon fast asleep, feeling happier and more at peace than he had in a long time.