A/N: I don’t know what this is. All I know is that @simpingw0lfi3 refused to do it, so I did. Of course, please don’t expect this to be perfect because... it really isn’t.
Vote of thanks: @akaiiro-yume for checking and correcting all the grammatical fuck ups I did, making sure I didn’t stop writing this halfway and going through any mental breakdown I might have had instead for me. And, of course, @some-ikemen-snob for making sure this SCREAMED Lucifer energy this way and that. only for now, but ily both.
Devildom
14th February, 20XX
Saturday, 7:57 PM
Dear Diary,
I suppose I've never written a journal entry such as this in the past, for I haven't found either the desire or the will to task myself with writing my thoughts down in a manner wherein I speak to an inanimate object. That said, I have been told writing is, in a manner of speaking, therapeutic, and I believe I could do with some of that right now. It would be false to assume I don’t still harbour any inhibitions towards using my time in this manner, especially when I'd much rather be by Diavolo’s side. The very same Diavolo who, as a matter of fact, happens to be the subject of this writing session today. Strangely enough, and if I recall correctly, he was also the one who introduced - which is putting it rather mildly - me to the “art” of journal entries. I admit, I haven’t given this activity the kind of gravity which was probably expected out of me, but then again, today is a little different from the rest. I'm not entirely certain as to where to begin, but I do believe I have been told in situations like these, one should do whatever... feels right.
Diavolo is... well, where do I even begin? He is the future of Devildom, as a few might call it - myself included. While he does appear to be quite the cheerful and at times careless lord, it’d be a lie to deny that he is just as wise and compassionate underneath that wave of buoyancy radiating off of him. Honest to a fault, but with his moral compass always pointing towards the best interest of those around him. I’ll admit, sometimes it proves to be rather difficult to believe that he indeed is a demon. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to compare him to the Polaris considering he does quite radiate the charisma from himself, shining admirably amidst a dark sea of onlookers. While in name he rules over all the demons in the land of Devildom, the right set of eyes won’t take too long to deduce the eloquence with which his fingers reach out to the soul of every single resident of the land, holding them together better than gravity ever bound humans to the earth.
Saying that is all there is to him would be a lie whiter than the wet snow, making its way to the tips of my fingers and sliding off gently onto this page. That, of course, doesn’t mean describing how I feel towards him is no herculean task. There are some cases when a language - no matter the plethora of vocabulary it offers - just isn’t sufficient enough, and this certainly is one of those cases. For the time being, let’s just owe my lack of articulacy to the bond of mutual respect and trust Diavolo and I share, built over centuries upon centuries, braving the ravages of time, and even perhaps the less than pleasing antics my brothers tend to pull. But while the impression the ruler of all demons and I tend to emit may seem to be distanced by a careful degree of professionalism, I don’t believe anybody knows that that might not be the case. Even Diavolo himself. Doesn’t come as a surprise, really, for they simply can’t know.
Why do I believe that to not be the case, then? Well, I would wonder why I felt so strongly about it had I not known the reason myself. The very same reason which is now a secret so surreptitious that I can’t help but consider burning this piece of paper once I finish writing to ensure it is never revealed to another set of eyes. Such dastardly is the nature of this emotion, tricking one into its delusive warmth, encompassing them with the belief that nothing truly is impossible, that what they feel might just be true and meaningful enough to be returned by the other they feel for, only to cackle with glee and turn away when the reality doesn’t match the fantasy it was believed to turn out to be. The very same emotion which in layman’s terms is apparently called... love.
I’m not entirely certain I understand the extent of its exquisite existence myself, to be truthful. All I know is no matter how intensely I try to shut the door on its escaping fumes, it turns futile the second I lay my eyes on the man in question. While the rest of the known universe sees an omnipotent leader binding everyone together, making them sing the same tune in harmony, I see what I can only consider an anchor, grounding me, making it so that I can’t ever fall into the abyss of the darkness that breathes inside of me and float away. He is the quintessence of the best of what the world has to offer, with his golden eyes sparkling like stardust, weaving their ever-lasting magic into the hearts of whoever they come across - be it human, or demon, or angel - wrapping them in their never-ending warmth, letting them sink into the depths of benevolence they promise. His hair are the cerise of a raging inferno, sheltering beneath their canopy a quick, sensible, erudite mind. His smile is but a warm culmination of everything optimistic and positive, like a flame inviting moths to it, reaching out to give their innermost yearnings a hand to grab on to and never let go. Simply divine. And this is where the paths diverge, I suppose.
They see a to-be Demon King, I see Diavolo.
But alas, love is a fickle mistress. Getting too lost in the charm of her alluring arms will only result in a doom of them wrapping around your neck, enticing, until you realise their hold is tightening. Not to hold on, but to suffocate. I might have gotten so lost in that fiery gaze that I didn’t notice it start to crawl along my skin, leaving a charred, burnt path in its wake. The very anchor which I believed to be the one to ground me and hold me close etched itself deeper into the oceanic floor of delirium, drowning me. The threads of his stardust wrapped themselves around me and clutched hard enough to strangle. Before I knew it, the symphony of something meaningful became the cacophony of a nightmare.
This red thread strung through itself earlier today the series of events I’d rather forget. I’ve known how I feel towards Diavolo for a while now, and I had been searching for an opportunity to come clean and let him know about it for the last few days. Not to say I hadn’t gotten said opportunities at all, but one could owe it to me being too prideful to admit I was finally opening up to the idea of accepting feelings and... emotions. Around that time was when Solomon let slip a few details about the significance of Valentine’s day in the human world as an annual occurrence to celebrate romantic love, friendship, and admiration, and with enough persistence, Asmodeus managed to convince Diavolo to declare the day as an official holiday. Just a few hours ago I walked along the empty hallways to Diavolo’s office, knowing him, Barbatos and I to be the only ones in the building, still choosing work over any form of inactivity. By then, I had talked myself into finally telling the most powerful of all demons about the feelings I harboured towards him. I am a little embarrassed to admit that I was indeed a tad hopeful, wishing for the feelings to be returned. Once I reached the door to his private office, my hand settled above the smooth hardwood to give it a knock. And that’s when I noticed that the door was already slightly ajar. I heard a voice inside, other than Diavolo’s, and I took the liberty to glance inside, only for my hopes to come crashing down when the realisation struck me: I shouldn’t have done that.
Inside his office, Diavolo sat in his seat with his mouth pressed against another, a hand trailing across the small face with dark green locks framing it with elegance while the other held on to the person’s waist, pulling him closer. My eyes widened when the smaller man of the two let out a muffled whimper, perched on Diavolo’s lap. Barbatos. I felt my heart squeeze out a pained croak at the sight, and even though every single nerve in my body begged me to move away and forget I ever saw anything, my legs didn’t move. They stayed glued to their spot on the floor even as I felt it crumble beneath my feet, just the way my eyes stayed on Diavolo. My lip trembled with a longing I never thought I’d experience when Barbatos intertwined his fingers with Diavolo’s, smiling into the kiss they shared, like the perfect harmony which was always meant to be. It was when Diavolo broke the kiss, eyes meeting the other’s and whispers of love and confessions floating across the room until they settled on my ears, that I finally felt the mask crack. The facade I had worked on for centuries to lay the foundation of crumbled as my fists clenched, letting myself have a moment of weakness when a lone tear of frustration, delay, anger, and self loathing dripped down my cheek. I looked up at the ceiling, a voiceless laugh tumbling across my lips at the cognisance that the Polaris I was reaching out for, shining proud in the middle of a dark, cloudless sky, was beyond my reach, and... never supposed to be mine. How far I could stretch, how willing were my fingers to make one last attempt to touch it’s light and bask in it - all of that didn’t matter anymore.
I exhaled a shaky breath, blinking once as I tucked away whatever it is I was going to tell Diavolo in some corner of my mind, crushing the key with a hard snap of my fingers. My eyes found Barbatos again, glazing over with a heartfelt wish for him to find his happiness, at least. It was with one last aching smile towards Diavolo and a euphoric laugh spilling from Barbatos’ lips that I turned on my heel, shaking my head at the fate I was handed. Needless to say, I hold no malice towards either of them - they’re both precious to me, as much as I dislike admitting it.
I believe I have shared more than what was required, and I shall burn this piece of paper lest anyone finds it. One might call it wishful thinking on my part, but I do pray that watching the last signs of anything I harbour towards the one who wasn’t meant to be mine from the start burn as the embers of the fire consume it whole makes me put a lid on my feelings once and for all, for they were never supposed matter. They weren’t supposed to exist to begin with.
After all, only a prince deserves a fairy-tale with a happy ending, and I am no prince.
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Last time we fucked was on your dorm room floor. You were wearing a gingham dress you had borrowed from your mom, and I can still feel the scratchy carpet on my knees as we lowered my pants down and we hiked the dress over your hips. We had just gotten back from spring break and our days before we returned home we're numbered. You had slept with a friend over break. It was his first time and it was the latest of your times with a first-timer. I knew all this; you had asked me before we left for our respective parts of another state.
When we first met, I had mentioned that my favourite book was Stranger in a Strange Land. You had mentioned yours. We both read them without telling the other. We were both deeply touched and amused. It was a few days before spring break you asked me. It was late and dark, and we lay naked together in your lofted dorm bed. You told me about your friend who hadn't had sex yet, how he was sweet and you thought it'd be nice to make that milestone for him. You asked if I'd be okay with that. Without hesitance and enthusiastically, I agreed. I meant it. I'd do the exact same thing today; I have never questioned the correctness of my decision. That was that.
After, you told me you didn't think it was a good idea if we slept together for a bit. You didn't think it was fair to your friend because he didn't know that we were together. That confused me, but I was young and inexperienced and I was willing to be patient and not difficult. I didn't know that that had hurt me until arguably too late. I don't recall ever finding out if you told him. Other things happened. School got hard and you had less time.
My high school English teacher had loaned me a school copy of the Stranger on the sly my senior year and I read it in an evening. It made an impact. Those weeks after spring break, when your projects and finals were bearing down on you, I was there ready to offer comfort and support. It was then that I learned that for people with concrete ambitions, for people who aren't me, the idea that ultimately nothing matters so if your struggling with your grades it's not worth getting worked up about isn't comforting. Not only that, but now I can imagine it's seems almost abusive to be coming from some you care about and is supposed to care about you.
The time you had for me waned. Things didn't so much end, as evaporated. When the day came to move out hugs were had and commitments to keep in touch were exchanged. It was comforting, but didn't do anything to assuage the lingering confusion I felt. The emptiness without clearly defined borders. There wasn't a hole in my heart. You were still there, I just hugged you, but now the you in my heart and the you in my soul were out of sync. Every move you made was mirrored a moment too late in my breast.
It's been eighteen years. We talk more sometimes. We talk less other times. Once, I wasn't in your presence for a decade and a half. Early on, I occasionally brought up my lack of resolution. You gave your side of it, or some of it. I'm not sure I ever managed to properly get out what answers I was searching for; any time I got to talk to you I was too flustered, too elated to drill into the messy bits. Every chance I have to talk to you any thought critical reflection or ire evaporate. To this day I can't tell if this is delusional or an expression of deep emotion.
I can't be trusted. I feel like I've never gotten definitive answers to things I've put forward. These feelings are suspect. How can I know that they're have been clear answers? How can I know I'm not just blind to them, judgment obfuscated by sentiment?
I am a coward. I try and ask from time to time. I make broad and vague declarations and try and read tea leaves in the responses you give in kind. Rarely if ever am I unquestionably direct. I value you and our friendship so much, to risk fracturing it over something as petty and unimportant as my feelings seems foolish beyond measure. This is insulting to both of us. To imagine you wouldn't hear me with kindness and compassion, traits you possess and for which I love you for. To imagine that if I've been so thoroughly wrong about you that I would deserve to be treated ill by someone when being vulnerable with them.
I don't know where I expect this to lead. I don't know if things deepen or evaporate completely, leaving only salt rings on our souls. I don't know what you want. Perhaps that's always been the problem. I wonder if I ever asked. Probably not. For all the soberness of my character, I've always been a bit immature, a bit too shallowly self-reflective, not keen enough to see around me what I needed to. Maybe that's changed. Perhaps not.
I remember laying on your floor once. I was reading a book and you had schoolwork strewn about you. I remember thinking in that moment that whatever the near future held, a break-up or other relations or just life in general, that despite not particularly believing in marriage per se I could see myself at the back half of my life being committed to you. It was a profound thing for a person of only nineteen years and only one relationship of a few months to think. It was a dangerous thing to think.
How much can you trust the feelings of your younger self? How can you tell what's genuine or what's a youthful folly around which you've built yourself? Are things still real or are they just inescapably shaded by nearly two decades of misattributed hormones? After this long, does it really matter?
I value you more than I think you can know. Who I am today isn't possible without you. It sounds trite and ridiculous, but when I look inside, the echoes of our friendship ring off every hollow. I can't honestly say what I hope for our future, because I don't know what you want. What I can unequivocally say is that no matter how present or absent you are in my life, you are always the one I hold most in esteem, the one dearest to my soul. I hope that that's a place we can work from.
I spent the past hour finding your faults. I looked through old texts to find you bitching about something or another that really didn't matter. I looked through old pictures to look at your ugly mug, to give me more fuel to hate you with. But there was nothing. You are still the kindest person I've ever met. You are still the most beautiful person I've ever met. I am still in love with you an hour in the future, and I'm sorry. . . I'll write again in an hour.
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What is it you want most in the world? Are you pursuing it? Are you still planning to? Or are you already just a few steps away from the realization of your dreams?
The future is still so vague. It is simultaneously close and out-of-reach, scary and exciting. At whatever point you may be in life, you can never truly say that the future is just close or just scary. It is simultaneously everything and nothing.
How close are you to your dream? Do we ever say “this is it” when it comes to our dream? Does our dream come with a start and end point? The truth is, no matter how much time we spend pursuing our dream, we can never truly say that we have achieved it, until it is too late for us to appreciate it in all its simple glory. We do not see an end point in our dream.
So, does that mean that we have to live the rest of our lives unhappy? Uncontented? No.
We must always remember to find happiness even in the midst of pursuing our dreams. We must not only yearn for the happiness we will achieve once we accomplish everything we want to accomplish.
Dreamer, you will not be happier when you get somewhere else. Do not stop pursuing whatever it is you want the most, but remember that as long as you try to look for happiness somewhere else, you will never be happy with wherever you are.
Dreamer, what I’m trying to tell you is that: allow yourself to fly if you want to go higher, even if you have to make your own wings to do so, but, remember to treasure the moments in-between your attempts to fly so that if you find yourself unable to fly, you will not be unhappy nor will you feel that your life spent pursuing it was a failure.
Rozelle Javier (Escapades to Happiness) | 3 / 11 / 2015 Dreamer
