#libra writes

Meliodas feels more than hears him land. The familiar magic picks at his senses in a way that no other can. The footsteps are more noticeable, clumsy in a way that points to a preference of navigating above rather than on the ground. Zeldris sighs as he stops next to Meliodas. The weary rush of air he lets out is such a normal greeting between them that it usually makes Meliodas smile. But not today. There’s a lot to tell from that sigh. At least to Meliodas there is. Where others hear exasperation, Meliodas hears oh there you are and thank the deity you’re okay and I can’t believe you make me do this again (and a worry that’s almost constant, especially as of late).

Zeldris sits down next to him. His wings flutter as he finds his balance on the edge. His feet hang at the exact same height as Meliodas’. Meliodas watches as his twin knocks his knee against his with too much force to be accidental. His brother is a lot of things, but he isn’t clumsy. He’s straight to the point. He’s forceful and anxious, and never does anything without intent. And right now Meliodas can feel him staring; silently judging and contemplating how to make him “less of an idiot” (and worrying that he won’t listen).

Now it’s Meliodas’ turn to sigh. He leans back on his hands; “My, you worry worse than a mother, Zel.” (Definitely more than theirs, who is incapable of the emotion).

It’s their normal routine. Zeldris worries, Meliodas jokes, and somehow along the way they both leave the conversation feeling a little lighter. It feels normal (but it also feels empty; going through the paces you no longer understand). It used to be their routine. It hasn’t in a while. (How long? When was the last time they sat down like this. Just the two of them; worry and comfort their only companions – and now, also a distance that doesn’t belong).

“Ludociel is looking for you,” Zeldris comments. That catches Meliodas’ attention.

“Really?” Meliodas pulls his gaze from the peaceful, endless sky. “That doesn’t sound right.”

Zeldris rolls his eyes; “Obviously not by choice, idiot. He’d rather die. But he needs to talk to you about tomorrow.”

Meliodas bites back a groan. Right. Tomorrow. The next pointless attack against the demons in this pointless never-ending war. Just because the Supreme Deity says so. Turns out Meliodas’ bad mood can still get worse (an unwelcome discovery – but one Ludociel of course can manage without even being present).

“Lucy will be fine.”

Normally, that would get a reaction. Normally, without Ludociel nearby to get his feathers in a bunch by the detested nickname, Zeldris would allow a grin (or roll his eyes, or both). Normally, Meliodas would grin right back (grateful to see his brother peek out behind his carefully crafted mask). Today, there are no smiles. Neither twin finds any humor in the old gag. (Not for the first time. This kind of day only seems to be getting more common. Meliodas tries not to think about that; not allowing it the air to be real).

Meliodas watches his brother for a moment. Zeldris looks tired. (Zeldris always looks tired – but it seems worse than usual. When did that happen? When did it get to the point of darkness shadowing those otherwise vibrant eyes? When did his brother crumple without him even realizing?) It shouldn't be a shock, but it is. A chill of unease creeps through Meliodas. (Meliodas has always hated normal. Begged and burned and bled for a change. But with Zeldris, he craves it. Zeldris was never the issue; always the balm that barely held him together).

This isn’t how things are supposed to go. Normally, they don’t beat around the bush. Ludociel would be the last thing mentioned. This is not how they do this. Zeldris is direct and Meliodas is observant. He doesn’t always listen to what Zeldris says, but he always hears him. Zeldris is supposed to sit down and stare at him until he confesses his ailments (or tells a lie Zeldris can pull apart). Meliodas is supposed to have dragged Zeldris off to bed hours – if not days – ago. Normally, they will be the first to notice, and the first to know; the first to say something. 

(Meliodas doesn’t know when this large chasm opened between them, stealing their words before they can be uttered. When did they stop talking to each other? When did they start wrapping their words in so many layers they felt foreign).

Meliodas doesn’t know how to change it. How to get it back to normal. So, he plays along. He raises an eyebrow and allows an – empty – grin on his lips; “Since when are you Ludociel’s errand boy?” (Why are you really here, Zel?)

Zeldris scoffs, an empty sound matching Meliodas’ empty smile; “I’m not anyone’s errand boy.” (Because I chose to be, dummy).

“Hmm, could have fooled me.” Meliodas turns back to the sky, the teasing tone sounding hollow even to his own ears. (You don’t need to worry about me).

“Besides,” Zeldris’ wing brushes against Meliodas’. “I doubt Ludociel would know where to find you.” (Somebody has to).

“Ugh, thank the deity for that.” (I’m fine).

“You can’t avoid him forever, you know.” (Please talk to me. Why can’t we just talk?)

“Nope, I guess not,” Meliodas shrugs, avoiding Zeldris’ gaze. “Just for a bit more, though.” (I don’t know how to, anymore).

Silence falls over them. The wind rushes across their feathers, tempting them with the promise of flight. Meliodas watches the clouds slowly glide by underneath their feet. He wants nothing more than to just let go and freefall – let his wings take him away from everything. He knows that if he does, Zeldris will follow. (At least Meliodas prays that he still will). Like he always does, like he always has. They can fly and race, and forget that nothing is ever as fine as they pretend they are. And they can talk. Actually talk. Like they always have. Like they are supposed to still do. (Meliodas can’t remember the last time they shared a flight like that).

Meliodas pulls his legs up to his chest. He rests his chin on his knees. Dreams are nice (they are naive and just crazy enough to make you believe), but he can’t reach them today. Not here. Not alone. (He just has the frayed strings of them left – like wings plucked to their core – unable to twist them into something solid, something real… Does Zeldris have them too? Or has he already buried his deep into the ground like the ones they shared as kids?)

Zeldris pulls his legs off the ledge as well, pulling one knee up to rest his arm across. Zeldris watches him again. (Not the normal stare that makes Meliodas spill his secrets – that made him tell him about Elizabeth long ago – but it’s something close. Close enough that Meliodas wants to grab hold of it. Hold onto it before it vanishes completely). Meliodas can’t bring himself to meet his gaze. He wants this moment to last. (It feels like normal, or at the very least the empty echo of normal). Maybe if they just continue to pretend, things can go back to normal. (Meliodas has never prayed for things to not change, but he does now. He does with his brother).

Zeldris sighs and Meliodas feels the moment shrivel. (Could they ever pretend enough for that?) It is a hypocritical wish anyway. Meliodas, if anyone, is to blame for everything that’s happening. He’s always the one to blame. Always the cause. He wants change, needs it. But he never meant for it to spiral so out of control. Especially not between them. He can’t make it stop. (He’s not sure he would even if he could…

Zeldris is always asking him how many lines he’s willing to cross, how much he will sacrifice for a stupid delusion. Change. Hah, the gods are more likely to cooperate before that happens. Yet still, Meliodas pushes. And loses. And tries.

He never wanted Zeldris to be one of those losses. Those sacrifices. Now he’s terrified that that is what is happening).

They sit in the silence for so long that Meliodas begins questioning if they’ll ever speak again. (Maybe they’ll sit here as the last of Britannia burns to ashes underneath their feet for a war it didn’t start). Then he feels Zeldris jostle beside him. His wings quake in that way it always does when he’s overthinking; turning the words over and over in his head until he’s buried himself with them. Meliodas doesn’t want him to say them. There’s a clump of dread filling his stomach. He can’t shake the feeling that this is not going to end like either of them wants it to. (It never seems to anymore). But everything else is so wrong, so Meliodas can’t stop himself. He bumps his shoulder against Zeldris’. He tilts his head and he looks him in the eyes. He sees the conflict there (he sees the same wish for this to not end). Meliodas keeps meeting Zeldris’ gaze – whatever is left unsaid, he will not allow it to be because of Zeldris’ anxiety – until his brother sighs.

Zeldris looks down at the clouds. He shakes his head. He sighs again. He looks up. His jaw twitches and his fist clenches. Then he drops. His leg falls back over the edge and his shoulders slump. He glares down into his hands.

“I–”

Meliodas feels his own heart drop. He hugs his knees tighter to his chest, and watches the sky again. Zeldris will speak now. There is no stopping the words. He shouldn’t want to – this way, they will speak. That’s what he wants, right? (Then why does it make his blood run cold?)

“It was that bad, huh?”

Meliodas knows what Zeldris is referring to. (He tries to hold onto the familiarity of his tone). Of course he knows. It’s the reason he’s been sitting here, feet dangling over the edge of the island for hours. It’s the reason Zeldris would’ve come looking for him regardless of Ludociel. It’s the reason they both danced around the subject for once. (They want this to be the time that they don’t have to talk about it. Naive and stupid as it is, seeing as such an instance has never occurred before. Their mother is a lot of things. One of them is as stuck in her ways as the mountains she towers above. She is predictable in her cruelty and nonexistent in her mercy. Her will is law and her law is all).

“Isn’t it always?”

“I’m sorry,” Zeldris says. Meliodas feels the ghost of his wing against his again – stopped just before touching. (There’s no point. No real weight to them. The words, the action. Neither can put even a dent into their mother’s. Yet still, as always, Zeldris offers them).

“Why are you apologizing? You had nothing to do with it.” Meliodas isn’t sure where he’d be without his brother’s comfort over the years, but he also can’t let Zeldris bear the burden of their mother’s sins. (Not when his brother already looks so close to breaking).

The Supreme Deity demanded an audience with Meliodas alone for a reason. Unlike her, he is unpredictable. (Reckless and stupid, Zeldris always says). He doesn’t care for her vision nor her ideals. (Stupid and getting dumber by the second.

Zeldris might be right. Meliodas is getting worse. Not even he is foolish enough to deny that… But he can’t stop himself. He knows what future their mother has in store, and– It’s unbearable. Continuing like this, for what? Centuries, millennia, indefinitely? Meliodas would rather die an idiot today, than live a life without hope for change).

“Brother–”

“It’s alright, little brother,” Meliodas interrupts. (He can’t deal with another lecture about throwing away his life for nothing. It isn’t nothing. It’s just something Meliodas doesn’t quite know what it is yet). Zeldris glares at him, but doesn’t otherwise fall for the obvious attempt at distracting him. (Normally, Zeldris will never let him indicate such an age difference).

“Meliodas.”

He can’t do it. He has no plan – just a wish for something better, and the fragile, stupid hope that he can actually attain it. He wants nothing more than to have his brother by his side, fighting with him, just like they always have. But Zeldris knows how to not anger their mother. Meliodas will never risk that without a guarantee they can survive it. (And he doubts he will ever get that).

Please talk to me.

He can’t. There’s a reason it’s been so long since they have flown together like they used to. Since they talked like they used to. They are on separate islands, drifting in different directions. Meliodas feels it – and he hates it. (He doesn’t know how to stop it. Not without losing Zeldris. Or risking his life. Or both).

Zeldris is on his feet a mere second after Meliodas. He grabs his arm as Meliodas is about to take off; “Where are you going?”

Meliodas didn’t say he was leaving. He didn’t think it. He just moved. (Unpredictable. Reckless. Stupid). There’s fear in Zeldris’ eyes; he already knows. (Don’t go. Don’t disobey her this one time. Don’t anger her when she’s already irate. Please, don’t).

“Heaven’s Theater.” The sadness in his eyes does nothing to ease the pain in Zeldris’. (Because he is still going. He’s hearing Zeldris, he knows he’s hurting him. And he is still going).

“Right now?!” Zeldris lets frustration cover his pain. Like he always does. He pulls his hand off Meliodas’ arm so fast Meliodas almost falls with it. Zeldris begins pacing. He is angry at him now too. “Of all the stupid, idiotic decisions–”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk!”

It’s a low blow, bringing Gelda into this. She’s the only thing Meliodas has ever seen his brother directly disobey their mother about. (Well, her and every time he’s come to bail Meliodas out of trouble, of course). The words leave a foul taste in his mouth. Meliodas never wanted to use her against Zeldris – because Meliodas understands. But the words slip out anyway.

Zeldris freezes. It’s not many things that can stop his pacing once he gets going. But this does it. Zeldris stops. His mouth snaps shut loud enough for Meliodas’ own teeth to ache. He glares at him. (When did they become this? When did they stop talking without hurting each other? They were always the one standing guard at each other’s backs, the one who reached out a hand when no one else did. They could always count on each other. Now they hardly talk). Meliodas is losing his brother. The distance between them grows. It feels abysmal with the added physical one Zeldris’ pacing leaves them with. If Meliodas does reach out, he won’t be able to reach him.

“I–” Meliodas trails off, unable to find the words.

(He didn’t realize it had become this bad. How didn’t he notice? Meliodas is reckless, and they are fine. Zeldris meets Elizabeth, multiple times, and they are fine. They do this dance of disapproval yet unwavering support, and they are fine.

Or maybe they are both just too good at pretending to even fool themselves).

“Well.” Zeldris turns his back to him (and that hurts more than his words ever can. Zeldris always watches him take off. Now, he’s about to leave first). “At least I know I’m being an idiot.”

He’s wrong. Meliodas knows. He knows it more than Zeldris ever can. He just… He can’t stop. He can’t pretend that this life is worth it anymore. That it’s enough. (Elizabeth makes his hope feel possible. She makes him feel like his idiotic recklessness isn’t pointless).

Meliodas watches as Zeldris walks away. There’s a black hole opening up inside his chest. Meliodas looks away. He can’t watch as his twin’s retreating back as he unfolds his wings. He can’t. He can’t watch him leave. This time, it feels so much more final.

Unfolding his own wings and preparing to let the winds whisk him away to where everything hurts less, Meliodas hears Zeldris’ quiet mutter; “If this explodes in your face, don’t expect me to come save you.”